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BENDISH 

A  STUDY   IN   PRODIGALITY 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

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http://www.archive.org/details/bendislistudyinprOOhewl 


BENDISH 

A  STUDY  IN   PRODIGALITY 


BY 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 


'Alieni  profusus,  sui  appetens" 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK      :      :      :      :      1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  igij 


BA5 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

PAGE 

I. 

FATE   AND   MR.   HENIKjER    . 

3 

II. 

IDYLL   IN   A   MASK        . 

12 

in. 

BENDISH   OF   BENDISH 

33 

rv. 

EFFLUENTS   OF    "tHE   BILLIAd" 

42 

V. 

LORD   BENDISH   IN   THE   UPPER   AIR 

55 

VI. 

"  OUTRE-TOMBE  " 

67 

VII. 

THE  MANTLE   OF   MIRABEAU 

80 

VIII. 

DISTRACTION   OFFERS 

90 

IX. 

HOW  NOT   TO   LEAVE   A   MISTRESS 

lOI 

X. 

TO   RAPALLO        .... 

112 

XI. 

THE   WEDDED   LOVERS 

125 

XII. 

THREATENED  INTERIOR       . 

•     131 

xin. 

THE   INVADING   SEED 

143 

XIV. 

"the   VISION   OF   revolt" 

154 

XV. 

THE   BLOOD-PACT 

•     159 

XVI. 

THE   LORD  AS   DEMAGOGUE 

.     182 

XVII. 

THE   GAME   AND   THE   PIECES 

.     201 

XVIII. 

LORD   BENDISH   IN   FLOOD   AND   EBB 

.     213 

XIX. 

A   LETTER   FROM   GEORGIANA       . 

V 

229 

8ii5'158 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XX.  "the  wanderer" 235 

XXI.  "the  wanderer"  examined  ....  246 

XXII.  A  BUDGET 257 

XXIII.  THE   AFFAIR 272 

XXIV.  THE   MEETING     .           .           .         '.           .           .           .  282 
XXV.  LAST  THROW   BUT  ONE 29O 

XXVI.  QUIETUS  FROM  OLD  MR.   HENIKER      .  .  .  302 


BENDISH 

A   STUDY  IN   PRODIGALITY 


BENDISH 

CHAPTER  I 

FATE   AND   MR.    HENIKER 

On  a  misty  Tuesday  morning  in  the  autumn  of 
that  year  which  saw  Wilham  the  Fourth  King  of 
England,  a  broad-shouldered  young  man  of  pleasant 
though  fiery  aspect,  blundered  late  into  the  Mill  Hill 
stage  at  Holbom  Bars  and  trod  upon  the  toes  of  a 
young  lady,  its  only  passenger.  She  shuddered,  and 
he  apologised  as  he  tumbled  into  the  corner  op- 
posite. The  coach  was  already  lurching  over  the 
slippery  stones  when  this  event  occurred.  It  had 
reached  Lamb's  Conduit  Street  before  the  young 
man  had  swum  from  the  waves  of  agitation  into 
the  smooth  waters  of  consciousness :  in  simpler  words, 
it  had  taken  him  ten  minutes  or  more  to  be  done 
with  fanning  himself  with  his  hat,  flapping  the  wings 
of  his  great  coat,  steadying  and  unstcadying  his  lit- 
tle black  bag,  puffing  and  blowing,  appealing  for 
witness  to  the  roof  of  the  stage-carriage,  and  then  to 
have  observed  how  pretty  a  lady  he  had  put  to  pain 
and  annoyance.  Whether  it  was  her  charm  which 
compunged  him,  or  the  comparative  calm  into  which 

3 


4  BENDISH 

he  had  now  brought  himself,  is  not  to  be  known.  It 
is  certain  that  he  leaned  forward,  hat  in  hand,  and 
said,  "Ten  thousand  pardons,  Madame,  for  my 
abominable  clumsiness!"  In  the  act  he  showed  a 
head  of  Heehos,  a  head  which  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  dipped  in  sunset:  but  his  eyes  were  very  blue, 
and  he  had  a  pleasant,  gentleman's  face. 

The  young  lady  bowed  her  head,  and  a  becoming 
blush  mantled  her  fair  cheeks.  For  one  moment 
her  serious  gaze  Ht  upon  him;  it  appeared  to  him 
that  her  eyes  dilated  and  swam  all  about  him,  that 
he  drowned.  'Tray  do  not  think  of  it,  sir,"  she 
said.    "I  am  glad  that  you  were  no  later." 

His  face  Ht  up,  his  own  blue  eyes  flashed.  He 
smiled;  his  teeth  were  good  and  very  white.  "You 
cannot  be  more  glad  than  I  am,  I  assure  you,"  he 
said:  a  promising  beginning.  But  the  lady's  re- 
serve resumed  its  hold  upon  her.  No  more  was  to 
be  permitted.  She  gazed  upon  her  gloved  and 
folded  hands,  she  was  pensive,  but  not  standing-off. 
She  showed  no  fear  of  possible  advances,  but  rather 
assumed  that,  as  a  matter  of  course,  there  could  be 
none;  and  soon  she  became  so  engrossed  in  her  own 
thoughts  as  to  be  positively  unaware  of  Mr.  Heniker 
— for  Roger  Heniker  was  our  young  man.  Not 
even  a  disorderly  crowd  near  Pancras  Church,  a 
crowd  of  hoarse  and  inflamed  persons  with  tattered 
flag  and  braying  horn  surrounding  an  orator  in  a 
cart,  was  able  to  disturb  her  reclusion.  This  mob 
came  flooding  about  the  coach;  one  heard  harsh 
cries  thrown  up.     "Reform,  Reform!"     "Give  us 


FATE  AND  MR.  HENIKER  5 

the  Bill!"  "To  Hell  with  the  Duke!"  "Grey  for 
ever!"  She  raised  her  arching  eyebrows,  she  glanced 
out  of  window,  and  drew  back  from  a  beery  grin. 
"God  bless  you,  miss,  we  won't  hurt  you.  It's  the 
Bill  we  want — "  These  were  parlous  times,  remem- 
ber; rick-burning  in  the  country  and  bill-clamouring 
in  town. 

"The  lady  hasn't  got  it — nor  have  I,"  said  Mr. 
Heniker.  "Off  with  you,  my  man."  He  spoke 
pleasantly,  and  was  so  received.  The  coach  lunged 
forward,  and  his  little  bag  rolled  on  to  the  floor. 
When  he  had  bestowed  it  upon  his  knee  again  he 
found  himself  no  better  able  to  carry  on  conversation. 

This  young  lady,  whose  face  was  pure  oval  and 
divinely  coloured,  whose  eyes  were  grey,  and  whose 
lips  were  sweetly  bunched  together  for  seriousness, 
looked  what  she  was,  the  thrifty  owner  of  charms  too 
rare  for  vulgar  husbandry.  By  instinct,  you  would 
have  said,  she  knew  her  worth.  She  was  lovely  in 
form  and  colour,  neatly  and  even  severely  dressed, 
without  a  trace  of  coquetry.  There  was  a  quaker 
tinge  upon  her;  a  dovelike  habit.  One  could  not 
consider  her  and  allure  together.  She  was  like  a 
bird,  but  did  not  trail  a  wing.  Mr.  Heniker  found 
himself  recalHng  scraps  of  the  psalter  as  he  was 
swayed  along  the  Camden  Road:  "My  darhng  from 
the  lions, "  and  similar  phrases.  She  inspired  pious 
thoughts;  one  was  the  better  for  having  been  in  her 
company.  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  the  straw  which 
her  feet  had  touched  being  hereafter  trampled  by 
drovers'  boots  or  spat  upon  by  bagmen.     Profana- 


6  BENDISH 

tion!  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  coach  should  be 
solemnly  burned  at  the  end  of  the  journey,  with  a 
clergyman  to  read  the  committal  of  it  to  the  flames, 
and  possibly  a  quire  of  virgins  in  white  ready  with 
a  hymn  in  the  background.  The  Annunciation  came 
into  his  mind,  and  then  Susannah  and  the  Elders. 
But  though  he  was  observing  her  closely  at  the  time, 
and  she  must  needs  (you  would  say)  have  been 
aware  of  it,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  coach 
was  empty  but  for  himself  and  her,  and  that  the 
guard,  swaying  by  the  boot,  could  hardly  view  more 
than  the  point  of  her  knee.  You  see  he  was  very 
conscious  of  the  elevation  of  his  thoughts.  If  she 
was  Susannah,  the  world  at  large;  through  which 
she  went  in  hourly  peril,  stood  for  the  libidinous  old 
couple. 

They  were  now  in  the  country,  rolling  between 
drip-spangled  hedgerows,  the  guardians  of  fog  and 
dim  grass,  ghostly  elms  and  shrouded  cattle.  Here 
and  there  a  newish  villa  stood  glimmering  white  in 
the  haze;  here  and  there  a  warm  brick  wall  half  hid 
a  pedimented,  more  considerable  house.  They  were 
in  North  Middlesex,  having  topped  the  ridge  of 
Hampstead,  and  near  their  journey's  end.  The 
coach  pulled  up  in  a  straggling  village  between  a 
duck-pond  fenced  by  white  palings  and  the  porch 
of  a  weather-boarded  inn.  The  guard  opened  the 
door,  and  the  young  lady  slipped  quickly  out. 

"Bunch  of  Feathers,  sir,"  he  told  Heniker. 
"Golder's  Green."    The  young  man  had  no  moment 


FATE  AND   MR.   HENIKER  7 

to  reflect  upon  the  vanishing  of  his  charmer,  nor 
upon  the  bUssful  fact  that  the  same  village  was  to 
hold  him  near  her  for  an  hour, 

"Hulloa!  I  get  down  here,"  he  said,  and  tum- 
bled but,  with  a  shilling  for  the  man. 

He  stood  confused  upon  the  gravel.  "Now — 
Myrtle  Cottage— Mrs.  Welbore— how  do  I—?" 
He  addressed  the  foggy  air,  but  a  loafer  by  the  porch 
coughed  and  spat. 

"Down  the  street,  sir,  to  the  church;  up  Church 
Lane,  and  you'll  find  it  opposite  Mr.  Jaskins'  farm- 
house. A  matter  of  ten  minutes — and  I'll  be  thank- 
ful for  the  price  of  a  half -pint." 

Heniker  bestowed  his  alms  and  hastened  after  the 
retreating  form  of  the  lady  which  he  could  just  see 
about  to  be  swallowed  up  in  fog.  He  saw  his  way 
to  a  question  and  answer,  and  almost  certainly  to 
another  look  from  her  fine  grey  eyes.  She  was  ac- 
tually now  turning  up  by  the  churchyard  into  a  lane 
which,  with  fortune  to  help,  must  needs  be  his. 
Long  legs  served  him  well;  he  drew  level  with  her 
before  she  was  past  the  church. 

Assuredly  she  had  been  aware  of  pursuit;  there 
had  been  a  gleam  of  the  ear  and  cheek,  a  flying  set 
of  the  shoulder;  she  had  seemed  to  be  before  the 
wind,  to  have  been  leaving  a  wake.  But  extreme 
caution,  not  alarm,  made  her  eyes  so  bright;  and 
the  vivid  rose  of  her  cheek  may  well  have  been  the 
flush  of  her  speed. 

Heniker  drew  level,  and  she  tired.  The  game 
was  up;    she  was  his;    her  eyes  met  his  in  appeal. 


8  BENDISH 

Youth,  his  length  of  limb,  the  lonely  lane,  the  fog, 
were  all  pleading  in  her  soft  glance.  The  red  and 
naked  sun  at  this  moment  loomed  low  in  the  mist 
Uke  a  flat  disk  of  copper,  but  showed  her  glowing 
like  a  morning  sky.  From  that  beating  moment  he 
was  at  her  feet. 

His  hat  was  in  his  hand;  he  was  very  red. 

"I  intrude  upon  you  again.  Madam,"  he  said; 
"this  time  for  a  kindness.  I'm  a  stranger  in  these 
parts,  and  am  trying  to  find  Myrtle  Cottage.  Could 
you  perhaps  direct  me?" 

He  was  sure  afterwards  that  it  was  Fate,  and  was 
pleased  with  the  notion;  but  just  at  the  moment 
other  things  involved  him:  her  swift  comprehension 
of  him  and  his  question  together,  as  if  the  one  set 
the  other  in  a  new  Hght;  a  new  gleam  in  her  fine 
eyes;  her  loss,  for  the  minute,  of  suspicion.  She 
was  thrown  off  her  guard,  and  became  a  fellow- 
creature,  not  a  hunted  thing. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  she  said.  "I  can  show  you 
the  house.     I  Hve  there." 

This  was  much  too  serious  for  his  stock  of  small 
talk.  "You  live  there!"  he  cried  out.  "How  ex- 
traordinary!" 

Her  simple  "Why  is  it  extraordinary?"  knocked 
him  flat. 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  it  is  not  in  the  least  extraor- 
dinary, of  course.  But  you'U  aUow  that  it's  odd 
we  should  have  travelled  from  town  together,  and 
should  be  going  to  the  same  house  in  Golder's 
Green." 


FATE  AND  MR.  HENIKER  9 

But  she  did  not  seem  ready  to  admit  even  a  coin- 
cidence between  them;   so  he  ran  on  in  a  hurry: 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,  perhaps,  that  I  had  been 
hoping  to  see  a  friend  of  mine  there — a  Mr.  Bendish. 
He  is  Staging  at  Myrtle  Cottage — at  least  I  think  so 
— the  guest  of  Mrs.  Welbore.  Is  it  possible  that 
you  are — ?" 

She  could  meet  him  here,  speaking  ^vith  decision. 

"Mrs.  Welbore  is  my  aunt,"  she  said.  "I  live 
with  her.  And  you  will  find  your  friend  there  too. 
He  is  not  her  guest,  but  her  lodger.  We  are  quite 
poor  people." 

He  murmured  something — anything — and  turned 
the  conversation. 

"Mr.  Bendish  is  younger  than  I  am,  but  a  great, 
a  good  friend — "  He  tried  hard  to  be  easy  and  rele- 
vant. "We've  kno-^Ti  each  other  all  our  Hves.  We 
were  at  school  together.  And  since  then —  Oh, 
well,  we've  had  a  good  deal  of  business,  you  must 
understand." 

There  he  stopped,  partly  because  he  was  in  diffi- 
culties, partly  because  he  felt  that  she  was  not  in- 
terested. He  hoped  ardently  that  she  was  not,  at 
any  rate.  For  he  pictured  his  friend  Bendish  very 
clearly,  wdth  his  calm,  imperial  look,  appraising  this 
heavenly  creature,  arrogating  her  to  himself  by  droit 
de  seigneur.  His  good  honest  heart  was  Uke  lead 
within  him. 

They  walked  on  without  more  words  for  some 
little  way;  but  she  broke  the  silence  with  some 
deprecation  of  the  forlorn  look  of  things — sodden 


10  BENDISH 

fields,  flattened  layers  of  leaves,  dripping  trees.  He 
agreed,  but  insisted  that  the  town  was  worse.  It 
had  rained,  he  said,  for  a  week.  Last  Friday,  for 
instance — ,  and  she  laughed  agreement. 

"Last  Friday,"  she  said,  "I  was  soaked — Hter- 
ally  soaked,  and  had  to  come  home  as  I  was.  And 
the  Tuesday  before  that — to-day  week — " 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  "Oh,  you  are  often  in 
town,  then?" 

She  nodded  her  bright  head.  "Yes,  twice  a  week. 
I  teach  drawing  to  a  young  lady  in  Bloomsbury 
Square  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays,  We  are  not  very 
well-to-do,  you  see.  I  am  glad  to  earn  what  I 
can." 

He  was  concerned.  "It  is  very  courageous  of 
you,  I  think."  He  saw  her  blush;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment they  stood  before  Myrtle  Cottage — so  pro- 
claimed on  the  white  wicket  gate  which  opened  to 
a  flagged  way  and  a  door  within  a  porch  of  trelhs. 
A  modest  building  enough,  to  contain  the  imperial 
Bendish.  Heniker  smiled  awry  to  think  of  it — to 
picture  his  arrogating  friend  and  this  maidenly 
beauty,  so  to  speak,  under  his  covering  hand,  held 
down  during  pleasure  as  a  boy  holds  a  mouse  or 
Httle  bird. 

Mrs.  Welbore's  niece  knocked  briskly,  and  was 
quickly  answered.  The  round-eyed  maid  stared  like 
a  foolish  kitten  to  see  the  tall  and  red-headed  stranger. 
"Oh,  Susan,"  said  she,  "do  you  know  if  Mr.  Bendish 
is  in?" 

Susan  gasped  her  "Oh,  yes,  Miss  Rose."    Miss 


FATE  AND  MR.  HENIKER  il 

Rose!  Ah,  beautifully  named,  most  gentle  lady! 
She  turned  her  last  to  Heniker. 

"Your  friend  is  here.  The  maid  will  announce 
you  at  once.  Susan,"  she  said,  "please  take  this 
gentleman  to  Mr.  Bendish."  She  looked  shyly  at 
him,  gravely  smiling  with  eyes  and  sober  lips,  bowed 
her  head,  and  passed  quickly  into  the  house  and  up 
the  stair.    Heniker  gazed  after  her. 

"What  name,  if  you  please,  sir?"  says  Susan,  and 
recovered  him  for  this  world  of  chance  and  change. 

"Eh?  Oh,  of  course.  Say  Mr.  Roger  Heniker, 
if  you  please." 

She  knocked  at  the  door  immediately  on  the  left. 
The  occupant  roared  his  "  Come  in,"  and  she  opened. 
Blue  clouds  streamed  outwards  and  hid  her  up. 
Then  he  heard  his  welcome. 

"Roger,  by  Heaven!     Come  in,  Roger,  and  be 

d d  to  you."     Heniker  plunged  into  the  blue 

mist  of  Latakia,  little  bag  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  II 

IDYLL  IN  A  MASK 

The  room  reeked  tobacco  and  was  shrouded  in  it. 
The  fire  was  muffled;  the  window  stared  up  like  a 
white  sheet;  the  table  was  a  menace,  the  chairs  were 
snares.  It  was  some  time  before  any  human  tenant 
could  be  seen,  but  a  pale  dim  outHne  was  presently 
discovered — a  recumbent  form  upon  a  sofa,  swathed 
in  white  robes.  His  knees  made  a  pyramid,  a  kind 
of  sugar-loaf  mountain;  their  top  in  strong  light  was 
like  a  snow-cap.  The  mountain  appeared  volcanic; 
for  the  blue  wreaths  shot  up  from  it,  and  broke  and 
hung,  while  a  fierce  bubbling  and  gurghng  heralded 
each  outburst. 

But  Heniker  advanced,  nothing  doubting.  "I 
hope  that  ^Mr.'  Bendish  keeps  his  health,"  he  said, 
with  jocular  emphasis  upon  the  title.  "I  see  that 
he  has  his  hubble-bubble  in  order." 

A  marble-faced  young  man  with  a  dark  head  of 
curly  hair  and  intensely  dark  eyes  lay  absorbed  upon 
the  sofa.  Every  feature  of  him  was  as  sharp  and 
still  as  statuary;  if  he  assumed  rapture  in  his  work, 
he  assumed  it  well.  Enveloped  in  a  white  Turkish 
gown,  he  was  writing,  with  his  knees  for  desk.  Open 
books  were  strewn  about  him;  he  blew  and  sucked 
at  a  water-pipe  which  stood  in  visible  commotion 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  13 

upon  the  floor  beside  him.  He  was  very  handsome, 
and  subUmely  uninterested  in  his  visitor,  although 
at  the  same  time  acutely  aware  of  him.  Heniker 
stoodj  half  amused,  half  impatient,  while  he  finished 
a  phrase,  scratched  out  a  word,  put  in  another,  then 
stabbed  in  a  full  stop.  Heniker  watched  him  as  if 
he  knew  that  all  this  was  acting,  and  excellent  of  its 
kind. 

At  the  period  he  said  drily,  "Got  him,  George?" 
The  young  man  hfted  his  fine  eyebrows. 

"Who  knows?  It  seems  good  to  me.  Do  you 
care  for  Homer,  by  the  way?" 

Heniker  laughed,  being  of  the  kind  that  considers 
poetry  a  weakness. 

"Homer!"  he  said.  "I  haven't  thought  about 
him  since  I  left  school.  What  are  you  at,  George? 
Homer?" 

"The  IHad,"  said  his  friend.  "By  God,  it's 
superb.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  I've  done  it 
this  time.  I've  been  at  it  now  for  a  fortnight.  I 
read  the  thing  right  through — once — in  a  week. 
Finished  it  yesterday.  This  morning  I  began  this. 
It's  moving,  you  know,  it's  moving." 

Heniker  sat  down  plumbly  on  the  end  of  the  sofa. 
"What  is  moving?  Homer?  Or  you?  You  are 
translating  him — Hke  Pope?  Or  is  Mr.  Cowper  your 
model?" 

Mr.  Bendish  was  looking  at  his  sheets.  "You 
shall  judge,"  he  said.  "You  shall  judge.  I'll  give 
you  a  bit  in  the  middle  of  the  first  book.  Do  you 
remember  Agamemnon  and  Achilles?" 


14  BENDISH 

Heniker  nodded.  "I  have  heard  of  both  of  them. 
^Eurukreion  Agamemnon — Podasokus  Achilleus.' 
Go  on,  George." 

Mr.  Bendish  was  occupied  with  his  manuscript, 
entreating  it  lovingly,  with  a  dot  to  an  i,  a  cross  to 
at.  "You  remember  the  quarrel?  They  pitch  into 
each  other!  It  is  all  splendid,  of  course;  but  the 
cHmax  comes  after  Athene  has  heartened  Achilles. 
She  goes,  and  he  breaks  out — '  Oinobares,  kunos  om- 
mat'  echon,  kradien  d'elaphoio' — Oh,  you  must  re- 
member that.     Now  here  am  I: — " 

He  began  to  read,  with  fierce  emphasis  upon  the 
consonants — finely  and  savagely — 

Drunken  and  dog-faced,  hearted  like  a  deer! 
Who  never  yet  didst  dare  arm  for  the  war 
Among  thy  people,  nor  lay  ambuscade 
With  chiefs  of  Hellas — that  were  death  to  thee! 
Thy  chosen  way,  to  range  the  far-spread  host, 
Snatching  the  store  of  him  who  counters  thee — 
Eater  of  men!  .  .  . 

There  he  stopped  with  a  half  laugh,  and  let  the 
pages  fall  as  they  would.  Not  that  he  thought  the 
work  bad — far  from  that;  but  that  he  felt  sure  that 
it  did  not  seem  superb  to  his  companion. 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing,"  he  said  hghtly.  " My 
'elegant  leisure!'  But  these  things  don't  amuse 
you." 

"Some  of  them,"  Heniker  said,  "amuse  me  ex- 
tremely; yourself,  if  I  may  say  so,  chiefly  and  always. 
Let  me  ask  you  now  how  long  this  masquerade  is  to 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  15 

go  on?  It  is  getting  awkward  for  us.  My  father  is 
disturbed,  and  begins  to  talk  about  noblesse  oblige. 
Your  mother,  I  may  tell  you,  has  been  writing  about 
that  every  day  for  a  month.  She  writes  a  good  deal 
when  you  are  with  her,  but  nothing  to  this." 

The  young  man  in  white  sucked  at  his  pipe,  star- 
ing straight  before  him.  He  would  have  been  much 
more  handsome  if  he  had  not  known  with  every 
breath  that  he  took  exactly  how  handsome  he  was. 

"You  don't  care  for  my  IHad?  You  find  it  like 
Cowper's?    H'm." 

Heniker  frowned.  "My  dear  George,  if  it  will 
make  you  serious,  or  attentive,  I'll  teU  you  at  once 
that  I  don't  give  a  snap  of  the  forefinger  for  Homer 
— yours  or  his  own.  I've  got  your  business  on  my 
hands,  and  tickHsh  enough  some  of  it  is.  You  for- 
get that  your  friend's — an  attorney-at-law." 

Bendish  gazed  at  him  calmly.  "I  do  my  best, 
Roger,  as  you  see." 

Heniker  straightened  himself.  "I'm  not  at  all 
obHged  to  you.  I  wish,  indeed,  that  you  would  re- 
member it."  Then  he  opened  his  black  bag.  "I've 
got  a  dozen  things  for  you  to  look  at."  He  dived 
for  papers,  fished  up  one.  "Here's  Milsom's  mort- 
gage— he  writes  of  foreclosure.  We'll  have  to  do 
something  with  Faintways."  He  fished  again: 
"Shadrach  won't  renew  except  at  a  monstrous  figure. 
Oh,  and  here  are  the  Newbiggin  accounts.  Two  of 
the  best  are  behindhand :  they  plead  bad  times.  And 
there  are  assignments  for  you  to  sign,  and  a  deputa- 
tion or  two.     I'll  get  you  to  afiirm  those,  George." 


1 6  BENDISH 

Mr.  Bendish  reached  out  for  these  documents. 
"I'll  sign  anything  you  please,"  he  said,  spread  out 
the  parchments,  dipped  his  quill,  and  wrote  in  a 
black  upright  hand,  in  very  large  and  even  lettering 
— Bendish.  Roger  Heniker  watched  him,  twinkling 
with  amusement. 

"You  write  a  fine  frank  to  a  letter,  George.  You 
shall  give  me  some  before  I  go.  Now,  let  me  ask 
you — do  these  ladies  here  know  that  they  are  enter- 
taining a  lord?  " 

Lord  Bendish  looked  at  him  as  if  such  a  question 
had  never  occurred  to  his  mind.  "Upon  my  soul, 
I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  why  they  should  not  have 
taken  my  word  for  it.  I  gave  them  to  understand 
that  I  was  a — ^just  an  ordinary  person." 

"You  might  be  both,  you  know,"  said  Heniker. 
Lord  Bendish  flinched,  and  replied  to  this  mild 
pleasantry  with  quite  unnecessary  seriousness  and 
heat. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  Doubtless  I  am,  but 
in  neither  case  is  the  fault  my  own.  However — I 
did  not  mention  my  rank  to  Mrs.  Welbore — nor  shall 
I — nor  shall  you,  by  your  leave — or  by  mine."  He 
stopped  there  as  if  out  of  conceit  with  his  own  ve- 
hemence. A  new  train  of  thought  took  him.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  "  Of  course  they  may  have  been  looking 
at  one's  things — ^brushes,  bottles,  gimcrackery  of  that 
kind.  I  can't  help  that — but  they  are  simple,  good 
souls,  not  prone  to  prying;  and  I  doubt  it." 

Heniker,  prick-eared  for  any  patronage  of  the  clear- 
eyed  young  goddess  of  the  house,  said  nothing  more 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  17 

of  his  friend's  masquerade,  but  turned  to  affairs, 
and  contrived  to  get  himself  heard  upon  urgent 
business.  With  this  I  do  not  concern  the  reader 
beygnd  saying  that  this  young  lord's  money-matters 
wer^  not  in  good  trim  and  could  have  been  in  no 
trim  at  all  if  the  Henikers,  father  and  son,  had  not 
been  both  honest  and  capable.  That  they  were  so 
will  appear  in  the  course  of  this  book;  that  their 
noble  chent  was  difficult,  at  one  time  exceedingly 
shrewd  and  keen  upon  his  profit,  at  another  vexed 
beyond  endurance  at  the  ver}^  word  Business,  must 
also  appear  if  I  am  to  do  any  justice  to  the  fluxes  of 
his  mood.  At  this  time  he  lent  an  occasional,  and 
very  unwiUing  ear  to  his  friend.  The  distaste  which 
he  showed  for  finance  was  grounded  upon  idealism 
and  expressed  with  rhetoric.  He  wanted  no  money; 
his  needs  were  but  one.  "Peace,  my  dear  Roger, 
leisure  of  mind  is  what  I  need.  I  came  here  to  get 
them.  For  what  other  reason  do  you  suppose  I 
jumped  out  of  town,  cut  the  clubs,  the  silly  clatter 
and  candlelight  of  the  Opera,  the  undressed  women 
and  unsexed  men  of  Society?  For  what  other  reason 
did  I  drop  my  lordship,  leave  my  coronet  on  the  flags 
of  St.  James's  Street — but  to  be  quiet?  I  have  tal- 
ent— I  know  it.  I  will  be  heard  of  one  of  these  days 
— but  not  as  a  learned  peer,  not  as  a  young  lord  with 
elegant  accomplishments.  No,  no,  my  good  friend, 
I  won't  get  up  Parnassus  in  a  state-coach,  nor  take 
my  seat  before  Apollo  with  a  herald  to  cry  out  my 
titles,  or  produce  my  writ  of  summons.  And  it  will 
take  more  than  Lady  O or  Lady  J to  get 


1 8  BENDISH 

me  there,  let  me  remind  you.  Work,  sir,  work! 
Brain-work  will  do  it  for  me.  Bah,  my  good  fellow, 
what  was  I  doing  with  all  those  people — blacklegs, 
blackguards,  rips,  demireps?  And  that  other  lot — 
the  Halcro  set,  the  Melmerby  set,   the  Louvers, 

Lady  0 ,  Lady  J ;  all  those  damned  pretty 

women,  as  false  as  they  are  frail!  Suddenly  I  sick- 
ened. Stomach,  do  you  say?  Liver?  Not  at  all. 
Heart,  sir.  I  discovered  that  I  had  a  conscience.  I 
said, '  You  infernal  ass,  Bendish.  Here  you  are  with 
a  head  hard  enough  to  break  the  Tables  of  Stone, 
and  you  turn  it  into  a  footstool  for  strumpets.'  I 
said  I'd  none  of  it,  and  I  left  it  all.  It's  all  there 
still,  I  doubt  not.  The  pasteboard,  the  bills,  the 
billets-doux,  tumbling  in  at  the  slit  in  the  door.  Let 
'em  lie  for  me.  I  have  Homer — and  something  else 
which  I'll  show  you  if  you're  worthy  of  it.  A  thing 
which — I  don't  know — ^which  may  perhaps — not  all 
die.  How  can  I  tell?  I'm  very  young,  you  know, 
but — "  Here  he  touched  his  breast — "I  feel  it  in 
me. 

To  all  of  this,  and  to  a  good  deal  more  of  the  sort, 
Roger  Heniker  Hstened,  as  he  needs  must,  well  know- 
ing that  for  this  expensive  escapade  also  the  money 
must  be  found.  Such  Hstening  was  of  his  profession. 
Before  it  was  well  over  he  saw  that  his  lordship  must 
be  humoured  for  the  present — the  more  so  as  his 
lordship,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  mule  in  him  too, 
positively  declined  to  budge.  His  mother !  Let  the 
Heniker  pair  deal  with  his  mother.  True,  she  didn't 
like  it,  but  then  she  didn't  Hke  anything.     She  never 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  1 9 

had.  If  he  stayed  at  home,  she  took  it  ill;  if  he 
went  away,  she  took  it  ill;  but  if  he  was  at  home  she 
quarrelled  viva  voce,  and  when  he  was  away  she  took 
to  the  twopenny  post.  He,  Bendish,  infinitely  pre- 
ferred the  latter,  because  he  had  no  need  to  read 
her  letters.  He  answered  them — yes;  but  he  did  not 
read  them. 

One  beat  remained,  and  Heniker  tried  it.  Ben- 
dish  had  been  moved  by  it  more  than  twice  before; 
it  touched  him  in  a  tender  place.  That  was  his 
peerage.  He  had  succeeded  to  it  unexpectedly  and 
late  enough  in  Hfe  to  have  been  permanently  im- 
pressed by  it.  Heniker  had  been  present  when  the 
accolade  fell,  as  it  were,  from  Heaven  upon  his  boy- 
ish back,  and  had  been  very  much  impressed,  boy 
as  he  too  had  been  at  the  time.  So  now  he  urged 
his  peerage  upon  him.  Bendish  was  of  age — would 
he  not  take  his  seat? 

But  Lord  Bendish  shook  his  handsome  head.  Not 
yet,  he  said — not  yet.  He  had  something  to  do  first 
— something  definite — something  (possibly)  decisive. 
Let  that  be  done  first,  at  any  rate.  Decidedly,  no 
seat-taking  yet  awhile. 

But,  said  Heniker — and  it  was  his  last  throw — 
here  we  were  hard  upon  the  year  of  a  coronation. 
There  would  be  a  Court  of  Claims,  to  sit  almost  at 
once.  Was  it  not  Bendish's  duty  to  consider  the 
reasonable  expectation  of  liis  successors?  Was  the 
Bendish  privilege  to  sink  for  want  of  user?  The  pale 
face  certainly  glowed  for  answer,  the  proud  small 
head  certainly  stiffened  at  that.     But  Lord  Bendish 


20  BENDISH 

did  not  commit  himself.  We  would  see — there  was 
time  enough.  Then  he  stretched,  yawned,  and 
looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  mantelpiece.  "By 
the  Lord,  half -past  five!  And  I  dine  at  seven,  and 
haven't  dressed  yet.  I  don't  rise,  you  know,  Roger, 
till  two  in  the  afternoon — you'll  excuse  me.  By  the 
way,  stay  and  dine  with  me.  You  must — I'll  not 
be  denied.  And  after  dinner  I'll  get  leave  to  show 
you  one  of  the  prettiest,  gentlest,  pleasant-spoken, 
modest  girls  you  ever  clapped  eyes  upon.  It's  a  fact; 
she's  like  a  nymph  of  Athene's.  She's  my  landlady's 
niece,  and  born  as  much  a  lady  as  you  please. 
What!"  he  broke  oflf  here,  impatient  to  be  stopped — 
for  Heniker  had  looked  down  at  his  boots — "Pooh, 
man,  what  will  they  care  about  your  boots?  We're 
not  going  to  Almack's.  I  tell  you  they  are  simple, 
honest  people — not  bandbox  fine  women.  Be- 
sides— Oh,  leave  aU  that  to  me!  I'll  explain  you  and 
your  boots  in  a  breath.  I  advise  you  to  stay — in 
fact  you  must,  if  only  to  be  conquered.  You'll  fall 
in  love  with  her,  it's  a  thousand  to  one.  I  did  imme- 
diately. But  you'll  be  too  late,  Roger,  for  I  believe 
she  has  a  kindness  for  your  poor  servant.  Now  I'm 
off  to  my  bath.  They  know  me  here.  Amuse  your- 
self well — turn  over  my  Iliad.  I  declare  some  of  it 
is  tolerable.  But  the  other  thing — ah,  I'll  talk  to 
you  about  that.  That  will  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end."  He  went  off  whistling  to  his  toilette,  leav- 
ing Mr.  Heniker  to  face  his  darkest  forebodings. 

If  his  heart  was  touched  already,  he  had  every 
reason  to  be  dark.     He  knew  Bendish  very  well,  had 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  2i 

known  him  from  a  boy.  There  had  always  been  a 
love-affair,  and  it  had  always  been  a  point  of  per- 
sonal honour  with  his  lordship  to  succeed  in  it. 
What  success  meant  depended  upon  the  mood  with 
which  he  entered  the  Usts.  Very  often,  nothing 
gross.  Bendish  was  not  yet  a  sensuaHst — at  his 
age  he  would  have  been  a  monster  if  he  had  been. 
No;  but  sometimes  he  rode  for  a  fall,  sometimes 
nothing  but  despair,  misery,  starvation,  a  white 
face  and  a  lonely  death  in  the  near  future  would 
content  him.  Then,  you  might  depend  upon  it, 
however  much  he  suffered — and  he  would  require 
to  wallow  in  suffering — the  cruel  fair  would  suffer 
ten  times  more.  Not  one  minim  of  her  cruelty  might 
escape  her.  Remorse?  Ah,  she  should  be  drenched 
mth  remorse.  Or  again,  he  might  go  in  to  win,  to 
be  the  fortunate  knight — and  then  good-bye  to 
virtue.  But  while  you  could  never  tell  with  Bendish 
which  way  it  was  to  be,  except  that  he  must  have  it 
whichever  it  was,  you  could  never  for  a  minute  be 
in  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  lady.  She 
must  suffer  horribly — either  for  virtue  lost  or  virtue 
retained;  and  Heniker,  his  life  on  it,  didn't  know 
where  she  was  most  to  be  pitied.  There  had  been  a 
Miss  Mary  Winton,  there  had  been  a  Miss  Sophia, 
a  Miss  Sara,  a  Miss  Susan,  a  Lady  Kitty;  and  then 

there  had  been  lately  the  blonde  Lady  0 ,  the 

too  easy  and  far  too  blonde.  But  she  had  a  hus- 
band, and  experience,  and  Heniker  fancied  that  his 
lordship  had  had  a  tumble,  that  this  idyll  of  Golder's 
Green  was  the  consequence,  and  that  once  more 


22  BENDISH 

balms  of  Araby  were  to  be  applied  to  the  cleansing 
of  the  gentleman's  amour  propre.  What  that  might 
mean  to  a  beautiful,  sensitive,  modest-minded  girl 
he  dared  not  think;  but  it  was  no  good  telling  him- 
self that  he  didn't  care — he  cared  extremely;  or  that 
the  thing  must  go  on — because  of  course  it  would. 
Please  Heaven  it  might  be  ended  before  irremediable 
mischief.  One  thing  was  clear:  he  must  get  the  Ben- 
dish  privilege  before  the  Court  of  Claims  as  soon  as 
might  be.  That  was  the  only  card  he  had  to  play. 
So  he  sat  on  in  the  dark,  waiting  for  his  friend, 
wringing  out  his  heart,  frowning  and  biting  his  nails. 

The  candles  heralded  him;  but  the  cloth  had  been 
laid  and  the  Irish  stew  was  smoking  on  the  board 
before  he  appeared,  curled  and  anointed,  resplendent 
in  his  evening  dress.  To  an  exact  taste  his  resplen- 
dence might  have  seemed  excessive  for  a  retirement 
so  coy  as  to  own  but  one  sitting-room,  or,  indeed,  to 
companion  a  man  who  must  spend  the  evening  in 
boots;  but  Lord  Bendish  was  not  minute  in  his  con- 
sideration, and  Heniker  had  other  things  to  consider, 
for  his  part.  But  the  dinner  was  very  gay.  His 
lordship  would  not  be  denied.  He  poured  out  his 
comments  on  men  and  affairs  in  one  long  and  seem- 
ingly endless  chain.  Hope  was  high  in  him  and  be- 
lief in  himself.  The  tonic  air  of  Hampstead  was  your 
only  physic,  it  was  clear.  Roger  should  try  it — 
take  a  lodging  near  by  and  ride  every  morning  into 
town  on  his  hired  hackney.  Who  knows?  they  might 
be  capping  verses  after  a  few  evenings.     Bendish 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  23 

would  welcome  that,  because  the  evenings,  he  must 
own,  were  long  and  dull.  Mrs.  Welbore  was  exactly 
like  any  one  of  them — or  say  three  of  them,  all  Sun- 
days, on  end;  and — worthy  woman  though  she  were 
— she  was  a  dragon  for  virtue.  The  lovely  Rose 
could  not  be  seen  of  an  evening,  unguarded.  Not 
for  a  moment.  That  was  a  bore,  but  it  made  the 
snatched  moments,  accidental  meetings  on  the  stair, 
glimpses  through  the  open  door — oh,  enchanting! 
After  all,  provocation  was  the  \dtal  thing  in  love; 
passion  needed  a  sting.  The  dart  of  Eros  was 
barbed,  Roger  must  recollect. 

Welbore,  the  happily  late  Welbore,  had  been,  Ben- 
dish  understood,  a  clergyman,  very  often  tipsy.  He 
had  left  the  widow  badly  o£f — or  indeed  found  her 
so  and  left  her  no  better,  except  for  his  own  depar- 
ture. She  had  betaken  herself  to  this  way  of  life, 
and  called  up  to  help  her  a  sister's  child,  this  fair 
Rose  Pierson,  with  whom  Roger  was  bound  to  fall 
in  love.  Miss  Rose  gave  lessons — drawing,  water- 
colours,  other  accompHshments  of  the  kind.  Ben- 
dish  found  that  an  added  charm,  because  humihty 
was  a  fine  thing  in  itself,  and  especially  becoming  to 
beauty  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  worshipped  beauty 
as  he  did.  It  was  an  entrancing  sight — let  Roger 
remark:  a  girl  with  the  bearing  of  a  young  queen 
bending  to  help  brats  spoil  paper.  So  the  young 
epicure  rolled  Rose  Pierson  over  his  tongue,  and  in 
the  act  kept  his  friend  sizzling  on  the  grid. 

Mackintosh  of  the  combed  whiskers,  the  wise,  the 
elderly,  the  soft-footed  Mackintosh,  was  behind  his 


24  BENDISH 

master's  chair.  It  was  understood  that  he  lodged  in 
the  village  and  played  bowls  with  the  villagers  when 
the  weather  was  fine.  He  too  had  need  of  the  art 
of  making  himself  as  snug  as  might  be — for  Lord 
Bendish  was  as  restless  as  the  wind,  and  never  moved 
without  Mackintosh.  He  alone  was  in  the  secret, 
except  for  Mrs.  Bendish  herself,  his  lordship's  mother, 
and  the  two  Henikers.  It  was  fine  now  to  see  him 
marshalHng  the  Welbore  maid-servant.  He  did  it 
entirely  with  his  eyebrows  and  a  very  occasional  pro- 
trusion of  the  lower  lip.  The  girl  watched  his  face 
with  the  pathetic  dependence  of  a  performing  dog 
upon  the  showman's  whip.  Her  eyes  were  wild  with 
anxiety;  tears  stood  in  them;  she  was  on  the  verge 
of  nervous  hysteria — so  great  was  Mackintosh,  so 
potential.  With  this  little  comedy  of  belowstairs  as 
with  everything  else,  and  himself  most  of  all,  Lord 
Bendish  was  delighted. 

Meantime  the  ladies  would  receive  the  gentlemen, 
and  there  should  be  tea  and  conversation.  The  gen- 
tle Mackintosh,  with  the  sober  voice  of  one  who 
relieves  himself  of  a  secret  of  State,  reported  so  much 
to  his  master,  who  paused  wine-glass  in  the  air,  to 
flash  out  upon  it,  "Very  good,  Mackintosh — but  will 
they  overlook  Mr.  Heniker's  boots?" 

Mackintosh  felt  sure,  but  Bendish  would  push  his 
rallying  of  Roger  to  the  extreme  point. 

"You  had  better  make  sure.  Mackintosh.  Pre- 
sent my  compHments — Mr.  Bendish's  compliments 
— to  the  ladies;  and  will  they  please  to  excuse  Mr. 
Heniker's  boots?" 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  25 

"Oh,  confound  it,  George!"  Heniker  protested,  but 
the  farce  was  solemnly  played.  A  high-spirited  lord 
can  do  what  he  will  with  his  attorney — or  he  could 
in  1830. 

Then  they  went  up,  Bendish  talking  (rather  loudly 
— for  he  had  taken  his  wine)  to  the  very  threshold. 
There  by  a  small  fire,  with  fancy  work  Hfted  towards 
the  candles,  sat  Mrs.  Welbore  in  black  silk  and  a 
lace  cap;  there  at  the  tea-table,  intent  upon  her  urn 
and  cups,  stood  the  tall  Rose.  Roger  had  a  vision 
of  her  slim  neck  and  white  shoulders,  of  her  bent 
head  and  glowing  cheek,  even  as  he  advanced  to 
make  his  bow  to  the  lady  of  the  house.  Bendish 
introduced  him  simply — his  good  friend,  Mr.  Hen- 
iker— and  left  his  boots  alone.  Mrs.  Welbore  in- 
cHned  monumentally;  and  then  came  the  moment 
for  which  our  young  man  had  been  preparing  him- 
self. To  Miss  Pierson's  full-orbed  gaze  he  bowed, 
and  said  very  plainly  that  he  had  had  the  honour  of 
traveUing  with  her  that  afternoon.  Bendish  caught 
the  remark,  stared  and  frowned  at  it.  Very  easily, 
as  Roger  knew  (knowing  his  man  well),  he  might 
have  been  thrown  out.  He  was  capable  of  being 
mortified  by  such  a  httle  thing,  of  being  silenced  for 
the  evening — and  the  silence  of  such  a  man  as  Ben- 
dish could  be  as  shattering  to  the  nerves  as  a  brass 
band:  his  sulks  were  contagious,  slew  their  tens  of 
thousands.  But  luckily  he  was  in  too  good  fettle. 
Roger  had  met  her?  Pooh,  old  Roger — there  was 
nothing  in  that. 


26  BENDISH 

And  a  chance  remark  of  Heniker's,  as  it  hap- 
pened, set  him  off  for  an  evening's  fireworks;  for  the 
young  man,  face  to  face  with  the  pretty  tall  girl,  had 
congratulated  her  and  himself  that  nothing  worse 
than  noise  had  ensued  upon  the  Radical  mob  which 
had  beset  their  progress.  She  had  smilingly  agreed, 
with  another  momentary  shaft  from  her  fine  eyes, 
when  Bendish  caught  the  allusion,  and,  stationed 
upon  the  hearth,  held  forth  upon  politics. 

Heniker,  seated  by  the  younger  lady,  watched 
him  rather  than  listened.  He  leaned  his  elbows  to 
his  knees,  and  clasped  his  hands  to  hold  his  chin. 
Sideways,  as  it  were,  he  could  be  conscious  of  Rose 
Pierson's  quickened  bosom,  and  could  guess  but  too 
well  what  impression  the  chiselled  pale  face,  with  its 
proud  nose,  proud  and  scornful  lip  and  burning  dark 
eyes,  must  make  upon  her.  This  young  lord  had 
everything,  by  Heaven!  But  poor  Heniker  was  no 
rebel,  being  too  well  schooled  for  that.  He  was 
vaguely  troubled,  not  dreaming  of  resistance.  As 
for  Mrs.  Welbore,  she  sat  at  her  work  like  an  apa- 
thetic hillock,  solemn  in  twilight — a  broad-browed, 
flat-haired  lady  of  dark  hues.  Such  was  her  appear- 
ance; but  she  hid  behind  it  an  acute  timidity  which 
betrayed  itself  in  Httle  jerks  of  her  needle,  snatches 
at  her  gown,  little  flickerings  of  the  fingers,  twitch- 
ings  of  the  lip — here,  and  in  her  darting  eyes,  like 
those  of  a  field-mouse  at  a  meal.  She  was  imme- 
diately below  the  orator,  within  the  first  flush  of 
his  golden  shower,  a  heavy  and  submissive  Danae. 
Ever  since  her  birth  she  had  accepted  the  doctrine 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  27 

that  men  must  talk  and  women  seem  to  listen.    Had 
she  not  been  wedded  to  a  pulpiteer? 

Bendish  was  implying  that  but  for  accident  (he 
meanjt  the  peerage)  he  had  been  leading  those  hon- 
est men  into  the  House  of  Commons.  Yet  he  de- 
plored their  short  sight — for  of  what  use  would  the 
vote  be  to  them  with  the  powers  behind  parliament? 
Did  Mrs.  Welbore  guess,  did  his  good  Roger — but  his 
eye  was  for  Rose,  who  wondered,  softly  glowdng, — 
the  might  of  Society,  of  the  King  and  his  friends,  of 
the  Duke,  as  Duke,  or  my  Lord  Marquis  This,  or 
my  Lady  The-Other?  Beheve  Bendish,  the  mob 
needed  pikes,  not  votes.  (Here  Mrs.  Welbore  shut 
her  eyes  and  shuddered.)  But  for  every  gilded 
Mumbo- Jumbo  stuck  up  by  rascals  to  overawe  them, 
there  were  a  thousand  prostrate  wretches  hailing  it 
for  God  and  Lord.  That  was  so,  she  might  take  his 
word  for  it;  and  that  being  so,  what  was  the  part  for 
a  man  of  observation,  some  small  powers  of  reason- 
ing, some  fancy  and  moral  force,  to  play  on  such  a 
scene?  The  whip!  The  whip!  Mrs.  Welbore  cow- 
ered. Hit  folly  as  it  flies,  smartly,  across  the  back, 
or  even  lower  still.  Mock  them  into  sense,  flog  self- 
esteem  into  them.  Well!  that  might  yet  be  done 
again,  as  it  had  been  done  already.  The  whip  stung 
doubly:  it  stung  the  body,  but  it  stung  the  mind 
too — for  it  was  a  puny  weapon  to  fight  with,  and 
humiliated  the  victim  even  while  it  routed  him. 
Cervantes,  Voltaire  had  not  disdained  it.  It  had, 
he  might  add,  cleansed  the  Temple  of  old.  He  need 
not   say   that   he   disclaimed   comparison — but    let 


28  ;  BENDISH 

them  see.  Who  knows  what  a  mouse  may  not  do 
with  an  altar-candle?  He  paused:  it  was  Heniker's 
cue. 

"Out  with  it,  George,"  he  said.  "We  must  hear 
you  now.  What  is  it?  A  satire?  A  mock-epic?  I 
know  you've  been  at  something." 

Bendish  laughed  it  off — but  not  very  far  off.  It 
came  fluttering  back.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I'm 
ready — I  don't  know  that  I  have  the  face — but — 
Well!  the  fact  is  I  have  been  thinking  about  these 
things  in  my — out  in  this  happy  quiet.  But  really 
— Mrs.  Welbore — I  don't  know  whether — " 

Mrs.  Welbore  was  flattered,  and  would  have  been 
more  so  if  she  had  known  more  exactly  what  all  this 
meant.    Roger  entered  the  field  again, 

"My  friend  Mr.  Bendish  has  been  scourging  the 
vices  of  Society,  ma'am,  in  a  poem.  Pray  let  him 
read  it  to  us."  He  turned  to  Rose  Pierson,  whose 
eyes  sparkled. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Welbore,  rather  scared,  it 
must  be  owned,  at  the  word  vice,  "we  shall  be  more 
than  interested.  It  will  be  most  kind  of  Mr. 
Bendish." 

Bendish  played  with  the  notion.  He  took  it  up, 
as  it  were,  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  rootled  in  it, 
as  if  it  had  been  snuff.  "Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "on 
your  heads  be  it.  You  shall  hear  me  upon  our  pleas- 
ant vices."  With  which  he  excused  himself  and 
went  to  fetch  his  manuscript. 

Mrs.  Welbore,  excited  at  the  prospect  and  a  httle 
awed,  turned  impressed  eyes  upon  Heniker. 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  29 

"What  a  flow!"  she  said.  "Most  impassioned. 
I  had  no  idea — " 

Heniker  agreed  with  her.  He  desired  keenly  to 
know,  what  Rose  Pierson  thought;  but  she  kept  her 
looks' for  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Welbore  had  resumed  her  needlework;  and 
Heniker,  seeing  that  if  he  spoke  at  all  it  must  be  of 
Bendish,  and  if  of  Bendish,  to  invite  his  praises,  sat 
silent.  The  poet  returned  to  his  place  on  the  hearth 
and  declaimed  a  good  part  of  The  Billiad:  a  Satire. 

Billy  was,  of  course,  our  new  King;  the  Billiad 
(reflex  of  his  recent  Homeric  studies)  was  a  forecast, 
put  in  mock  retrospect,  of  his  fails  et  gesles;  rather 
of  those  of  his  ministers.  Done  with  astonishing 
verve,  with  a  ridicule  which  occasionally  defeated 
itself,  but  a  keenness  of  sight  which  omitted  nothing, 
it  had,  with  all  that,  a  real  literary  flavour.  Its 
fault — and  it  was  a  fault  of  youth — was  that  it  spared 
nothing,  but  mocked  the  evil  with  the  good.  It  was, 
in  fact,  as  nihilistic  as  a  young  man  can  make  it  who 
enjoys  the  sense  of  doing  a  thing  rather  than  the 
thing  doing,  and  has  a  sharper  eye  upon  the  effect 
than  the  cause.  There  was  unfortunately  nobody 
present  who  knew  how  good  it  was.  To  Mrs.  Wel- 
bore, the  Duke  of  Devizes  was  not  only  a  hero,  but 
a  Duke  and  a  Prime  Minister.  References  therefore 
to  his  unsafe  seat  in  the  hunting-field,  to  his  indis- 
criminate gallantries,  to  his  dry  manner  and  sensi- 
bility to  the  tears  of  ladies  passed  over  her  head. 
These  things  did  not  happen  to  the  great — for  were 
they  not  great?     How  can  you  make  ridiculous  that 


30  BENDISH 

which  is  not  so?  She  comfortably  assumed  that  she 
had  mistaken  Bendish's  meaning,  and  let  it  go  at 
that.  To  her  the  wonder  rather  was  to  reaHse  that 
the  English  language  contained  so  many  words  which 
rhymed,  and  the  chief  pleasure  she  took  the  reflec- 
tion that  this  young  gentleman  of  fashion  should  give 
himself  so  much  trouble  in  honour  of  her  household. 
Heniker  hstened  with  a  heavy  heart.  It  was  not  at 
all  in  his  hne,  but  he  saw  that  this  kind  of  rattle 
must  crumple  him  up.  He  guessed  what  it  must 
mean  to  a  simple  home-dwelling  lady.  He  could  not 
help  chuckling  at  some  of  the  hits,  to  be  sure.    To 

have  Lord  B 's  snufHing  nasal  so  neatly,  to  have 

Lord  G 's  state  of  heart  (with  his  hand  upon  it), 

and  Lord  S 's  state  of  the  nation  (with  his  foot 

upon  it)  coupled  in  two  absurd  lines;  to  get  old  Lord 
Maxonby's  matrimonial  squabbles  and  his  gout  so 
neatly  as  in  the  couplet, 

And  goaded  M by  still  clings  to  life, 

Ridden  by  seven  devils — and  one  wife; 

to  have  Ward's  thunder  and  Minors'  penny  whistle, 
the  Poodle's  strut  and  Alvanly's  thumping  stride, 
to  have  the  Cock  at  Sutton  face  to  face  with  the 
Pavilion,  and  a  picture  of  the  Foundhng  besieged 
by  ill-matched  erring  couples  picking  out  heirs  at 
the  eleventh  hour:  one  must  grin  at  such  things. 
But  by  the  Lord  Harry,  George  went  too  far.  Hen- 
iker was  a  gentleman,  up  in  arms  for  his  ideal.  The 
ears  of  his  lady  must  be  guarded  from  the  mere  hint 


IDYLL  IN  A  MASK  31 

that  this  was  a  wicked  world.  She  walked  in  fairy- 
land: let  all  nerves  be  strained  to  prove  this  place 
the  Eden  she  proclaimed  it  by  her  presence  in  it. 
He  jvished  to  God  that  George  would  stop — but 
George  did  not. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  dazzled  into  silence, 
and  Heniker  had  gleaned  what  his  friend  had  let 
fall  from  the  harvest  of  Rose's  fine  eyes,  the  poet  was 
by  no  means  for  bed.  Mackintosh  of  the  combed 
whisker  suppHed  a  passable  claret  and  a  devilled 
bone;  Heniker  must  hear  his  projects. 

He  was  full  of  vision,  the  vital  young  lord,  full, 
too,  of  claret  before  he  had  done.  His  reading  had 
discovered  him  a  new  role — a  new  Cynic  was  born 
in  that  heady  hour.  Here,  in  Myrtle  Cottage,  was 
his  tub.  From  it  should  stream  satire  after  satire, 
till  England  itself  felt  Hke  this  good  bone,  slashed 
into  streaks,  and  every  gaping  wound  raw  with 
cayenne.  A  new  Diogenes  for  a  new  age!  A  cynic 
of  fashion,  a  cynic  with  a  Mackintosh,  with  plenty 
of  clean  hnen  and  passable  claret — and  a  whip,  by 
Heaven,  a  whip  for  bare  shoulders  and  gartered  legs. 
The  Court  of  Claims  might  go  hang,  the  House  of 
Lords  might  go  howl.  The  Bendishes  came  over 
with  the  First  Wilham  and  flicked  the  Fourth  out  of 
the  sunlight.  This  was  the  dream — to  which  Hen- 
iker could  only  listen  ruefully. 

He  learned  that  The  Billiad  was  in  the  press,  would 
be  upon  the  town  in  six  weeks  at  the  furthest,  pro- 
claimed as  by  Lord  Bendish.  This,  then,  was  cer- 
tain, there  was  an  end  to  concealment.     The  ladies 


32 


BENDISH 


here  would  know  whom  they  had  entertained. 
" Dammy,  and  why  not? "  cried  Bendish.  "I  shan't 
bite  'em.  I  can't  help  being  a  peer."  He  added, 
"My  impression  is  that  they'll  rather  hke  it."  Hen- 
iker  was  sure  that  they  would. 

It  was  three  in  the  morning  before  he  could  set 
out  on  a  six-mile  trudge  through  the  miry  lanes. 
He  forged  along  under  foggy  stars  with  much  to 
think  of.  But  he  was  a  simple  as  well  as  an  honest 
young  man.  The  best  he  could  do  for  himself,  that 
he  did.  He  thought  of  Rose  Pierson's  face  and  clear 
grey  eyes.  He  told  himself  that  she  was  a  glory  to 
the  Earth.  To  thank  God  for  her  and  to  do  his 
duty  seemed  all  the  service  he  could  render  her  as 
yet. 

But  he  remembered  that  she  gave  lessons  in  town 
on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays.  Now  this  had  been  a 
Tuesday. 


CHAPTER  III 

BENDISH  OF  BENDISH 

Argent,  a  Bend  engrailed,  sable,  was  the  Bendish 
coat,  and  the  badge,  now  used  as  crest,  a  Peacock  in 
Pride,  with  the  motto  Numen  inest — which  wags  put 
thus  into  old  EngHsh,  into  the  mouth  of  the  bird — 
Nu,  men,  I  nest.  They  averred  that  the  cuckoo  had 
been  the  properer  ensign  for  his  present  lordship, 
George,  tenth  Baron,  and  many  an  honest  gentle- 
man agreed  with  them  before  his  career  was  closed. 

There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  about  the  Norman 
pedigree.  Giles  de  Bendes  is  in  the  Battle  Abbey 
Roll,  and  there  is  or  was  a  bastide  in  Normandy 
called  La  Ferte  Bendes,  which  is  quite  near  enough 
for  modern  genealogy. 

You  don't  get  them  again  with  any  certainty  till 
the  fourteenth  century,  when  you  find  them  in  the 
Midlands — the  Grafton  country,  it  is  called — in  a 
stronghold  called  after  them  Castle  Bendish.  Peter 
de  Bendish  or  Bendysshe,  if  you  will  have  it,  was 
Escheator  of  the  shire  in  1375.  It  was  his  grandson, 
another  Giles,  who  was  summoned  to  Parliament  by 
Henry  IV.,  anno  prima,  as  Giles  Bendysshe  de 
Bendysshe,  chivaler,  and  sat  and  voted  accordingly. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  a  comfortable  and  com- 

33 


34  BENDISH 

petent  dignity  which  after  events  never  seriously 
disturbed  until  near  our  own  day. 

Nevertheless  the  Bendishes  took  the  losing  side 
in  most  compHcations  of  public  affairs.  They  were 
Lancastrians,  and  lost  heads  in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses; 
then,  what  must  they  do  but  turn  their  coats  before 
the  time  and  rank  with  Richard  at  Bosworth?  Yet 
Henry  VIII.  saw  them  rise  again;  and  fat  abbey 
lands  were  added  to  the  Bendish  fee.  Bloody  Mary 
kept  them  Catholics,  and  Elizabeth  fleeced  them  for 
it.  Charles  found  them  EpiscopaHans  and  stoutly 
on  his  side.  Under  Cromwell  they  lost  everything; 
but  the  George  Bendish  of  Charles  II.  was  the  "wild 
lord"  of  their  legend,  and  may  well  have  sown  the 
wind  of  our  young  man's  whirlwind  harvesting. 

Tories  under  Anne,  Jacobites  in  the  '45,  it  wanted 
but  the  Jacobinism  of  our  man  (to  say  nothing  of 
his  rhymes)  to  finish  the  Hne;  but  so  far  as  gear 
went,  lands  and  tenements,  flocks  and  herds,  the 
George  Lord  Bendish  of  this  chronicle  inherited  little 
but  debts  and  tradition.  He  was  not  the  son,  but 
the  great-nephew,  of  the  ninth  lord.  His  father  had 
been  the  son  of  an  Honourable  Richard-William, 
brother  of  Adolphus-Charles,  the  ninth  lord,  by  name 
and  station  plain  John  Bendish,  Esquire,  a  man  about 
town,  too  much  about  town,  sometimes  in  •  the 
lock-up,  sometimes  in  the  sponging-house;  a  com- 
panion of  the  Prince — the  Prince  and  Poins — who 
had  finally  abandoned  his  wife  and  child  and  set- 
tled down  upon  a  shoal  at  Calais,  where  perhaps  he 
soothed  the  last  hours  of  Mr.  Brummell.     They  had 


BENDISH  OF  BENDISH  35 

much  in  common.  There  in  due  course  an  influenza 
aggravated  his  gout  and  floated  him  out  of  the 
reach  of  duns. 

Mrs.  Bendish,  his  widow,  after  a  course  of  lodgings 
at  watering-places — she  was  known  at  Bath,  Mat- 
lock, Tunbridge,  and  the  hke — had  set  up  her  rest  at 
Cheltenham,  when,  in  1822  or  thereabouts,  she  re- 
ceived, first  a  letter,  then  a  visit  from  Mr.  Robert 
Heniker,  the  senior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Heniker 
and  Breakspear,  and  father  of  our  Roger  Heniker. 
He  had  to  tell  her  that  her  uncle  by  marriage,  Lord 
Bendish,  was  failing  (as  she  knew,  he  was  childless), 
and  that  provision  was  to  be  made  for  the  education 
of  the  heir  to  title  and  estates.  Her  George,  who 
was  then  a  fine  boy  of  thirteen,  must  be  taken  from 
his  grammar-school — it  was  his  third  or  fourth — and 
replanted,  it  was  thought,  at  Harrow.  There  he 
would  mix  with  gentlemen  of  his  own  degree,  future 
law-makers,  generals,  bishops,  and  chief-justices,  fu- 
ture peers  and  gentlemen  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
future  holders  indeed  of  everything  worth  having  in 
England.  He  did  not  add — for  he  knew  Mrs.  Ben- 
dish at  once — that  Mr.  George  would  also  meet  there 
his  own  son  Roger,  already  an  Harrovian;  but  there's 
no  earthly  harm  in  saying  that  when  Mr.  Heniker 
decided  to  send  his  son  to  Harrow  he  also  decided 
that  the  next  Lord  Bendish  should  go  there  too.  He 
did  not  mention  his  son  to  Mrs.  Bendish,  but  he  did 
mention  the  young  Marquis  of  Pointsett,  who  was  the 
Duke  of  Kendal's  son,  he  did  mention  the  Bendishes' 
distant  kinsman  the  Earl  of  Twyford;  he  forgat  not 


36  BENDISH 

Lord  Ambleby,  he  forgat  not  the  Earl  of  Dare.  Of 
Mrs.  Bendish  I  shall  speak  with  more  reticence  than 
her  son  ever  did  even  if  I  assert  that  these  names  had 
weight.  They  had  so  much  that  she  did  not  stay  to 
consider  what  more  numerous,  more  splendid  names 
might  not  be  on  the  roll  of  Eton.  She  fell  incon- 
tinent into  the  little  shallow  pit  digged  for  her  by 
Mr.  Robert  Heniker — and  she  never  found  him  out, 
oddly  enough. 

To  Harrow,  then,  went  young  Bendish,  and,  again 
oddly  enough,  became  the  close  friend  of  Roger 
Heniker,  nominally  his  servant,  but  really  his  patron 
and  benefactor.  Roger  Heniker  did  not  see  it  in  that 
light  at  all;  but  his  father  did,  gladly,  and  Bendish 
himself  did.  Bendish,  who  was  very  intelligent,  per- 
fectly understood  that  his  fagmaster  was  to  be  his 
servant  in  a  few  years'  time,  and  this  knowledge 
served  as  salt  to  his  present  porridge.  Roger  Hen- 
iker enjoyed  the  youngster — he  liked  his  passionate 
enthusiasms,  his  absurd  seriousness,  his  high  spirits 
and  quick-quenching.  Himself  was  good-tempered 
to  a  fault,  tender-hearted,  and  tolerant.  He  had  no 
claim  upon  the  world  but  to  be  let  alone  with  its 
fauna.  Man  excepted,  he  was  interested  in  every- 
thing on  legs.  He  loved  his  fellow-men,  but  never 
studied  them  or  knew  anything  of  them.  They  were 
his  equals,  therefore  (probably)  like  himself — but  a 
squirrel  on  the  nibble,  a  mole  fanning  out  the  black 
earth,  a  bird  on  the  bough  or  aflock  over  the  stubble 
— here  was  his  paradise  of  delight. 

He  was  not  observant  of  men,  yet  one  thing  caught 


BENDISH  OF  BENDISH  37 

his  fancy,  and  thereafter  never  left  him.  He  was  at 
Bill  on  the  first  occasion  after  Bendish's  accession  of 
degree.  The  lad  had  received  the  news  that  morning 
earlyj  and  Roger  had  not  seen  him  at  close  hand  since 
it  had  come  upon  him.  Of  course  there  was  no  sur- 
prise in  the  thing — it  had  been  common  knowledge 
from  the  days  of  his  entry;  but  between  Becoming 
and  Being  there  is  a  gap,  and  it  is  interesting  to  see 
a  man  cross  it.  Then  came  Bill — a  rainy,  squally 
afternoon,  the  boys'  faces,  flushed  beneath  their  tum- 
bled hair,  making  an  irregular  circle  in  the  yard, 
crowded  there  for  a  moment  of  tedium  before  the 
plunge  headlong  again  into  their  passionate  quests 
— for  all  the  world,  Roger  thought,  hke  a  pack  of 
hounds  held  up  by  the  huntsman's  whip,  and  all 
their  tongues  hanging  out! 

The  calHng  began:  it  was  all  an  old  routine,  and 
you  got  used  to  hearing  one  fellow  called  Lord 
So-and-so,  and  another  Mr.  So-and-so,  and  another 
plain  So-and-so.  Plain  Bendish,  Hke  plain  Heniker, 
it  had  always  been. 

But  at  last — towards  the  end — Roger  caught  his 
breath.  "Lord  Bendish"  was  called,  and  he  saw 
the  quick  and  curious  faces  flash  as  they  turned  all 
one  way.  The  name  was  answered  clearly;  Roger 
looked  at  his  young  friend.  Bendish  was  as  white 
as  a  dish-clout  except  for  his  eyes.  They  were  as 
black  as  your  hat.  He  saw  the  head  sway,  and  the 
neck  stiffen.  Next  minute  the  child  was  over.  It 
wasn't  long — he  was  round  again  in  a  minute;  but 
there  was  one  thing  Heniker  never,  never  ventured 


38  BENDISH 

to  do,  and  that  was  to  hint  that  Bendish  had  fainted 
on  that  occasion.  Instinct  told  him  that  that  would 
have  been  a  mortal  affront.  I  am  not  aware  that 
anybody  ever  used  that  handy  little  weapon  against 
him.     Bendish  would  hkely  have  killed  him. 

Heniker  left  Harrow  at  eighteen  and  went  straight 
into  his  father's  ofhce  under  articles.  The  business 
of  his  life  was  laid  before  him,  to  which  Harrow  had 
been  a  prelude.  He  was  put  in  charge  of  a  nest  of 
japanned  boxes,  entitled  (in  white  paint)  "Bendish 
Estates,"  "Bendish  v.  Rewby  and  Others,"  "New- 
biggin  Lands,"  and  the  like.  In  and  about  these  tin 
tombs  he  hopped,  at  first,  like  a  monkey  on  a  long 
chain,  but  as  the  years  went  over  him  sobered  down 
to  the  semblance  of  that  more  decent  figure,  the 
blinkered  donkey  who  plods  round  and  round  the 
beaten  path  of  a  draw-well.  Before  young  Bendish 
had  flung  through  his  year  at  Oxford,  and  been  given 
to  understand  by  authority  that  it  could  not  possibly 
be  repeated,  Heniker  was  the  patient,  decent  man  of 
business  his  father  had  been  before  him — with  this 
difference,  that  he  had  been  able  to  save  a  quiet 
relish  of  his  patron,  to  view  him  apart  as  a  freakish 
human  creature  as  well  as  a  purse-with-a-hole-in-it, 
which  it  was  the  task  of  his  life  to  keep  brimming 
with  money. 

George,  Lord  Bendish,  at  the  hour  of  his  majority 
was  a  young  man  who  could  do  everything  but  see. 
He  could  feel  intensely,  think  incisively  and  sum- 
marily, act  in  a  flash,  and  bide  his  time  with  extreme 


BENDISH  OF  BENDISH  39 

tenacity;  but  discernment  was  denied  him.  He 
could  not  gauge  values,  he  could  not  tell  the  real 
from  the  appearance.  He  had  a  fund  of  emotion,  a 
fount  of  passion  in  him  which  might  have  set  up 
another  Shakspeare  for  EngHshmen  to  worship  when 
he  was  well  dead — he  turned  them  both  to  melo- 
drama or  gave  them  out  in  ten-gallon  jars  to  any 
painted  minx  who  would  take  one,  or  a  dozen  of 
them.  He  valued  most  of  all  his  possessions  his 
peerage:  that  was  a  mark  upon  him  he  never  lost 
sight  of.  He  might  have  been  the  most  distinguished 
peer  in  England  but  for  his  conviction  that  it  was 
distinction  enough  to  be  a  peer  at  all.  Other  careers 
attracted  him  for  a  time,  and  he  pursued  them  with 
a  zest  that  soon  tired:  poetry,  politics,  love,  phi- 
losophy, affairs.  He  found  them  and  their  rewards 
flimsy  stuff  beside  the  sohd  fact  of  being  a  lord  among 
commoners.  It  is  almost  incredible  that  a  young 
man  so  gifted  could  be  so  dull,  that  a  man  so  sensi- 
tive to  fine  things  could  be  so  vulgar-minded — but 
so  it  was.  WTien  he  became — as  he  did  become — an 
acknowledged  poet  he  hugged  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  first  a  lord;  when  he  had  men  behind  him 
who  might  have  stormed  and  carried  Westminster 
he  thrilled  to  remember  that  a  peer  led  them. 

One  of  the  simpler  results  of  this  flaw  in  his  intelli- 
gence was  that  he  did  not  mix  much  ^vith  his  own 
class.  He  had  much  acquaintance  but  little  inti- 
macy with  the  great  families.  The  Lansdownes,  the 
Devonshires,  the  Wakes  and  Carylls,  the  Tiptofts 
and  Botetorts  would  have  merged  his  little  barony 


40  BENDISH 

and  smothered  his  poems  in  red  books.  He  must 
have  guessed  at  that  by  instinct.  He  never  knew 
them  well,  and  was  never  quite  comfortable  in  their 
company.  That  means  to  say  that  he  could  not  be 
certain  of  his  own  superior  quahty.  He  would  love 
their  daughters  or  dazzle  their  sons — that  was  easy; 
but  themselves  he  kept  for  The  Billiad  and  suchlike. 
He  affected  to  despise  them,  but  was  really  over- 
awed. Their  hues  outshone  his  own;  their  ease 
made  him  uneasy.  He  had  an  affair  of  the  heart, 
or  head — he  had  just  got  over  the  worst  of  it  when 

we  met  him  at  Golder's  Green — with  Lady  O . 

Her  ladyship  was  both  fair  and  frail,  and  would  have 
followed  as  far  as  he  would.  What  froze  his  passion 
at  the  source  was  the  amused  witness  which  Lord 

O himself,  a  good-tempered,  bulky  Hbertine  of 

admitted  prestige  in  Corinthian  circles,  bore  to  his 
lady's  entanglement.  Bendish  shivered  and  froze, 
then  fairly  fled.  Golder's  Green  revived  him — sim- 
phcity,  the  love  of  \drgin  for  virgin,  the  whip  for 
Society's  shoulders  were  the  results.    We  may  thank 

the  O s  for  them — and  sincerely,  for  some  of 

them  bore  good  fruits.  The  Billiad  made  him  fa- 
mous, and  is  first-rate  fun. 

He  was  inspired  when  he  did  it — and  whether  in- 
spired by  other  men's  labours  or  not  doesn't  matter: 
he  was  inspired  both  to  see  and  to  report.  He  missed 
nothing  ridiculous,  and  made  much  ridiculous  which 
was  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  spread  anger  and  con- 
sternation abroad,  he  enjoyed  himself  hugely,  and  he 
risked  nothing  of  his  own.     He  stretched  himself  out, 


BENDISH  OF  BENDISH  41 

as  it  were,  in  the  sun,  and  revelled  in  the  result  of 
his  short  if  fiery  labour.  So  it  was  to  be  with  him 
while  he  lasted:  fierce  delight  in  work,  fierce  enjoy- 
mentj  quick  satiety.  He  flung  over  the  troubled 
grey  skies  of  England  like  a  meteor  or,  as  some  say, 
a  rocket  that  bunches  out  with  a  puff  into  coloured 
stars;  and  what  he  left  behind  him — fools  to  pay  for 
their  folly,  honest  men  for  their  credulity.  Rose  Pier- 
sons  ravished,  Henikers  impotent  in  misery — he 
neither  knew  nor  cared  to  think.  He  had  Hved 
greatly  and  enjoyed  himself  vastly. 

But  most  of  this  is  to  come.  At  the  moment  we 
may  consider  him  happy — not  in  love  with  Rose 
Pierson  at  all,  but  very  much  with  the  idea  of  him- 
self as  her  stooping  lover,  her  prince  in  disguise. 
The  Billiad  would  be  out  in  a  few  weeks — and  then 
we  should  see. 

Meantime  we  have,  I  hope,  seen  something. 


CHAPTER  IV 

EFFLUENTS   OF    "tHE   BILLIAD" 

Gray's  Inn  is  fatally  near  to  Holborn  Bars,  and 
you  must  not  expect  a  young  man  enamoured,  with 
offices  in  the  one,  to  forget  that  on  Tuesdays  and 
Fridays,  happening  by  the  other,  he  might  see  if 
not  be  seen  by,  if  not  even  saluted  by,  the  lady  of 
his  heart.  Roger  Heniker  neither  forgot  it,  nor 
desired  to  forget  it,  but  a  virgin  reticence  withheld 
him  for  at  least  two  weeks;  and  as  all  men  are  of  all 
creatures  begotten  the  most  easily  imposed  upon, 
that  hoary  imposition  that  he  who  does  not  work 
neither  shall  he  eat,  found  (and  kept)  him  convinced 
that  he  must  not  break  routine  for  all  the  urgency 
of  his  fever. 

He  loved;  but  he  was  in  that  first  stage  of  the 
passion  when  the  great  vocation  Hes  before  him  Hke 
a  clear,  shining,  white  road  into  the  world  seen  from 
a  mountain-top.  The  upHfting  was,  so  far,  enough. 
He  could  tell  over  the  syllables  of  her  name,  glorify 
his  parchments  with  her  magic  initials;  he  could 
bathe  his  heart  (on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  at  one 
of  the  clock  in  the  afternoon)  with  the  Ught  of  her 
shed  about  Holborn  Bars  and  wafted,  surely,  into 
Field  Place  where  he  sat  at  work.     The  need  to  see, 

42 


EFFLUENTS   OF  "THE  BILLIAD"  43 

to  hold  with  the  eyes  upon  the  eyes,  to  confess  and 
receive  confession;  the  need  to  touch — all  these  things 
were  as  yet  far  from  him.  The  Sacred  Image  was 
hidd^i  yet  in  shimmering  veils,  fold  upon  fold;  the 
thought  that  one  of  them  could  be  drawn  was  im- 
piety. 

However — these  delicate  hesitations  gave  way  like 
mist  before  the  mountain  sun,  and  within  ten  days 
of  his  visit  to  Golder's  Green  he  did  happen  to  be 
passing  Holborn  Bars  when  Rose  Pierson  happened 
to  be  hastening  up  to  the  coach  door.  Then  there 
was  a  startled  gaze,  a  becoming  blush,  a  timid  smile 
to  reward  his  deep  salutation.  He  was  absurdly 
breathless,  but  after  the  first  moment  her  self-pos- 
session was  absolute.  She  thanked  him,  she  did 
very  well.  Her  aunt  was  well.  Golder's  Green  was 
fast  losing  its  leaves;  the  frost  had  killed  the  last  of 
the  dahlias  only  that  morning.  But  the  sun  had 
been  quite  strong  when  she  travelled  up  to  town. 
The  fine  weather  had  set  in  very  shortly  after  Mr. 
Heniker's  visit.  We  might  usually  hope  for  a  fine 
October — Saint  Luke's  Summer.  Heniker  said  that 
the  fine  weather  had  set  in  that  very  night,  and  was 
aghast  at  his  gallantry,  but  not  more  than  she  was. 
He  told  Miss  Pierson  that  he  had  left  Myrtle  Cot- 
tage at  three  in  the  morning,  under  stars.  Miss  Pier- 
son was  interested.  Gentlemen,  she  supposed,  had 
a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other,  especially  school 
friends.  Heniker  did  not  find  that  he  could  talk  to 
her  of  Bendish — either  for  fear  of  surprising  admis- 
sions out  of  her,  or  by  pure  instincts  of  honour,  one 


44  BENDISH 

doesn't  know.  He  was  absorbed,  too,  in  her  pres- 
ence.    She  seemed  to  draw  his  nature  to  herself. 

"You  are  happy  in  your  work?  They  are  learn- 
ing of  you?"  She  had  answered  the  first  question 
by  a  shining  look.    The  second  she  waived. 

"They  are  dear  children.  I  delight  in  them.  I 
don't  know  that  they  have  real  talent.  Of  course, 
they  are  very  young.  But  I  have  a  pupil  at  home 
who  is  extraordinary,  at  least  to  me,  who  am  very 
ordinary.  I  think  that  I  learn  of  her,  rather  than 
teach  her." 

Heniker  thought  that  there  was  no  better  way 
of  learning,  and  she  agreed.  They  sketched  to- 
gether, she  said,  from  Nature.  The  fine  weather 
allowed  it. 

The  coach  was  to  start,  and  she  left  him  with  a 
kind  look.  He  was  carried  all  day  upon  exalted 
waves  of  air,  being  a  simple  soul.  The  menace  of 
Bendish  was  forgotten  in  the  pressure  of  Bendish's 
affairs. 

There  was  Mrs.  Bendish  to  see,  and  placate,  so 
far  as  might  be.  She  hved,  chiefly  upon  grudges, 
in  a  dismal  old  white  house  smothered  in  laurels  at 
Ongar  in  Essex — a  heavy-browed,  flushed,  and  fat 
woman,  of  the  kind  that  can  only  be  quickened  to 
live  at  all  by  a  sense  of  intolerable  injury.  The 
fact  is  that  she  had  been  plentifully  injured.  Her 
husband  had  been  unfaithful,  savage,  biting,  and 
ruinous;  she  had  spoilt  her  son  until  he  despised 
her;  and  now  he  was  discarding  the  only  things  in 


EFFLUENTS   OF   "THE  BILLIAD"  45 

the  world  which  she  was  capable  of  valuing.  She 
flamed  and  gloomed  by  turns  upon  the  young  lawyer, 
fumed  and  surged  like  a  black  satin  volcano  from 
her  s^fa.  She  saw  everything  that  George  did  as  a 
studied  insult  to  herself.  Thus  and  thus  he  repaid 
her  privations  and  incredible  pains — by  stab  after 
stab.  He  was  hke  his  wicked  father,  profligate, 
spendthrift,  a  mocking  spirit.  Was  there  a  female 
at  the  back  of  all  this?  She  was  certain  there  was  a 
female.  Would  Heniker  (she  called  father  and  son 
alike  Heniker,  putting  them  in  their  places)  be  so 
good  as  to  relate  Lord  Bendish's  establishment  at 
Golder's  Green?  Heniker  did,  omitting  Rose  Pier- 
son.  And  what  was  this  she  read  in  the  Morning 
Post?  Stay — she  had  it  cut  out.  "It  is  rumoured 
that  a  young  gentleman  of  rank — whisper  has  it 

L d  B sh — is  about  to  surprise  his  friends  and 

acquaintances  by  a  publication  of  a  seasoned  order, 
where  the  salt  of  wit  is  heightened  by  the  pepper 
of  vivacious  personal  comment.  His  lordship  will 
spare  neither  age  nor  sex,  we  learn.  Even  the  Mon- 
arch, who  politically  hath  neither  parts  nor  passions, 
must  take  his  turn!  We  tremble."  What  was  the 
meaning  of  that?  let  her  ask — what  could  its  meaning 
be  but  one  more  sword  in  her  bosom?  If  this  scan- 
dalous business  were  to  go  on  she  must  die  in  the 
ruins  of  Society.  She  presumed  that  her  son  did 
not  seek  the  name  of  murderer.  Yet  what  was  left 
to  her  but  to  die — or  live  to  be  hissed  in  the  very 
streets  as  the  mother  of  a  Blasphemer? 

In  extenuation  Heniker  could  only  put  forward  his 


46  BENDISH 

lordship's  high  spirits  and  youth.  He  did  his  best 
for  The  Billiad,  avoiding  the  confession  that  he  had 
listened  to  it,  and  chuckled.  He  admitted  that  it 
was  now  binding,  owned  that  it  must  appear,  but 
suggested  that  possibly  it  would  fall  flat — and  in- 
flamed the  dowager.  Her  smouldering,  heavy  eyes 
flashed;  she  heaved  hke  the  sea.  It  was  hardly 
likely  that  the  work  of  Lord  Ben  dish  would  fall  flat, 
and  hardly  became  a  retainer  to  suggest  it.  Did 
Heniker  think  that  a  Lord  Bendish  was  a  nobody? 
By  these  means  he  diverted  her  fury  to  himself,  and 
presently  slid  it  deftly  out  of  sight  by  talking  of  the 
Coronation  and  the  Court  of  Claims.  He  thought 
that  his  lordship  would  take  an  interest  in  that;  and 
if  he  did,  the  taking  of  his  seat  would  follow;  and 
upon  that,  who  knew?  It  was  possible  that  his  lord- 
ship's interest  might  Hght  upon  politics.  He  was 
wayward,  impulsive,  very  young,  no  doubt,  but — 
Here  he  shrugged.  Mrs.  Bendish,  absurd  creature, 
was  all  on  edge,  and  now  passionately  defensive. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  "will  do  what  becomes  him, 
I  can't  doubt.  We  need  not  discuss  his  political  or 
social  career.  We  will  confine  ourselves  to  the  busi- 
ness of  the  Estate,  if  you  please." 

Really,  Heniker  thought,  he  had  guided  the  old 
beast  pretty  neatly. 

And  it  seemed  that  he  had.  Her  mood  persisted, 
and  not  only  survived  the  appearance  of  The  Billiad, 
but  complacently  accepted  its  roaring  success.  For 
the  dare-devil,  precocious,  irresistible  thing  flung 
itself  upon  the  town,  and  was  in  all  men's  mouths  in 


EFFLUENTS  OF  "THE  BILLIAD"  47 

a  week.  Diners  capped  each  other  with  it  across 
great  tables;  a  Hne  of  it  flew  about  the  House  of 
Commons.  Leigh  Hunt  had  two  columns  of  it  in 
The  Examiner,  and  wrote,  warmly  enthusiastic,  to  the 
noble  author.  The  Tories  laughed,  the  Jacobins 
cheered;  the  Whigs  were  glum.  But  there  was  no 
doubt  of  the  wit  of  the  thing,  nor  of  its  stinging  merit. 
Mrs.  Bendish,  declaring  that  she  had  always  pre- 
dicted this,  and  had  been  waiting  for  it,  was  gloomily 
happy  for  a  week  and  forgot  to  be  bored.  There 
were  the  Reviews  to  come,  of  course;  but  Mrs.  Ben- 
dish  knew  nothing  of  the  Reviews,  and  would  have 
cared  less.  And  she  was  quite  right.  No  amount 
of  drenching  from  Gifford  or  Lockhart  would  put  out 
a  fire  which  every  breath  in  London  was  fanning. 
Lord  Bendish  was  a  hard  hitter,  young  though  he 
were;  and  a  noble  youth  who  could  cut  at  the  Duke, 
and  draw  blood — for  that  he  did,  they  said — must 
be  taken  gravely  by  the  Reviews.  But  of  all  that 
in  its  place.  A  week  after  publication,  in  the  height 
of  the  ferment,  Heniker  took  to  the  Mill  Hill  stage 
— on  a  Tuesday. 

He  saw  immediately  that  Rose  Pierson  knew  all. 
She  was  too  serious  to  care  to  hide  it  from  him.  She 
was  too  serious  to  care  whether  she  met  Heniker  or 
not.  You  may  say  that  there  is  always  a  something 
discernible — a  flutter,  a  momentary  waver  of  the 
blood — when  a  girl  meets  an  infrequent  acquaint- 
ance who  admires  her.  But  there  was  nothing  of 
the  sort;  she  was  preoccupied,  very  grave.  She  be- 
came aware  of  him  and  his  hat  in  hand,  she  bowed. 


48  BENDISH 

smiled  faintly,  and  let  him  take  her  hand  for  a 
moment.  She  didn't  seem  at  all  interested  in  his 
travelling  clothes — took  his  company  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Here  was  the  worst  of  all  misfortunes! 
Heniker  fought  the  sinking  of  his  heart,  like  a  man 
and  a  gentleman.  He  chattered  away  and  ignored 
her  silence.  Then  he  did  a  bold  and  very  right  thing. 
He  gave  Bendish  his  title.  "I  hope  I  shall  find  Lord 
Bendish  at  home,"  he  said.  "I  had  no  time  to  write 
for  an  appointment." 

The  effect  was  to  open  the  floodgates.  A  happy 
move  of  his.    Rose  was  grateful. 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "He  is  at  home — for 
the  present."  Then  she  strained  her  pretty  head 
away  from  him;  and  then  turned  it  sharply  his  way. 
Her  eyes  were  large,  full  of  questioning.  "You 
know  him — his  lordship — well?" 

"I'm  his  family  lawyer,"  Heniker  said,  "or  my 
father  is.  It's  hereditary  in  our  family,  since  my 
great-grandfather's  time.  Yes,  I  know  him  very  well. 
I  was  sent  to  school  with  him  that  I  might.  You 
may  say  that  I  was  bred  up  to  know  him  well.  But 
perhaps  I  know  him  better  than  you  might  have  ex- 
pected. He  took  to  me  at  Harrow.  There  was  no 
reason  why  he  should." 

She  looked  gently  at  him  and  enheartened  him  to 
proceed. 

"  I  suppose  he's  elated  with  the  success  of  his  poem. 
It's  very  clever  indeed;  it's  made  an  enormous  hit. 
Even  we  professional  people  know  that.  He  told 
you  as  much,  I  expect?" 


EFFLUENTS  OF  "THE  BILLIAD"  49 

"He  gave  me  a  copy  of  it,"  she  said.  *'It  was 
very  kind  of  him." 

"He  would  naturally  give  it  to  you,"  Heniker  ad- 
mitted.    "You  admire  it?" 

Her  reserve  was  growing  again.  "I  don't  under- 
stand it  all,  of  course.  It  is  about  great  people  I 
have  only  read  of  in  the  newspapers — or  heard  of. 
Lord  Bendish  has  explained  some  of  it.  It's  very 
wonderful,  I  think." 

Heniker  laughed.  "It  will  make  liim  famous,  or 
notorious.     Everybody  Avill  want  to  see  him." 

She  was  now  very  serious:  he  noticed  that — not 
alarmed,  not  unprepared,  but  serious. 

"I  am  sure  of  that.  He  will  have  to  take  his  place 
in  the  world." 

Heniker  nodded.  "I  think  so.  He  won't  like 
leaving  Golder's  Green,  but — he  must  take  his  seat, 
you  see.  There's  to  be  the  Coronation  next  year — 
he  must  walk  in  that.  There's  a  ceremony  to  be 
performed  by  the  Lord  Bendish  of  the  time.  We 
think  he  should  take  his  seat  first." 

She  knew  that.  "Yes,  he  has  said  so."  Then  she 
sighed,  very  lightly,  and  looked  down  at  her  gloved 
hands.  They  resumed  conversation  by  and  by,  but 
only  fitfully;  and  there  was  no  getting  away  from 
Bendish.    He  filled  the  poor  girl's  sky. 

A  stroke  of  good  fortune  was  in  store  for  him, 
however.  His  lordship  was  out,  he  was  told,  on 
horseback.  So  a  horse  was  now  added  to  the  idyll! 
Heniker  immediately  asked  his  companion  if  he  might 
pay  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Welbore,  and  this  was  al- 


50  BENDISH 

lowed.  The  solemn  lady  was  glad  to  see  him,  for  she 
had  much  to  say — upon  the  invariable  subject.  She 
had  had  her  suspicions,  she  said  at  once;  there  had 
been  an  air  about  his  lordship,  a  kind  of  habit  of 
ascendancy.  Not  but  what  he  had  always  been  the 
soul  of  courtesy  to  herself  and  her  niece.  Perfectly 
the  gentleman  from  first  to  last — grateful,  ludi- 
crously grateful  for  what,  after  all,  was  his  due  as  a 
tenant  in  the  house.  But  she  had  not  been  deceived, 
though  she  perfectly  appreciated  his  lordship's 
reason  for  retirement.  However,  that  was  all  over. 
Some  talents  could  not  be  hid,  some  lights  burned 
their  bushels.  Mr.  Heniker  must  forgive  her.  She 
was  naturally  interested  in  her  distinguished  guest. 
Then  followed  a  string  of  more  or  less  obhque  ques- 
tions, whose  drift  poor  Heniker  could  not  fail  to 
see. 

He  made  the  best  of  his  lordship  and  his  pros- 
pects, and  opened  out  wherever  he  thought  it  safe 
to  do  so.  Mrs.  Welbore,  endlessly  stitching,  drank 
deep  draughts  of  wonder.  Rose,  pale  and  grave- 
eyed,  said  nothing,  but  pondered  her  case.  In  the 
midst  of  it  all  a  mighty  baying  of  dogs  broke  out, 
then  growlings,  scufflings,  his  lordship's  voice  in  wild 
command,  finally  piercing  yells  from  the  van- 
quished. Heniker  looked  up,  and  Rose  flashed  to 
the  window. 

Mrs.  Welbore  explained  that  Lord  Bendish  had 
brought  down  two  wolf-hounds  of  late,  terrific  crea- 
tures. The  farmer's  dog  opposite  was  the  victim. 
So  his  lordship  was  making  himself  comfortable  after 


EFFLUENTS  OF  "THE  BILLIAD"  51 

his  manner,  which  demanded  that  everybody  else 
should  be  micomf ortable !  Heniker  rose  to  take 
leave. 

Mr^.  Welbore  beamed  upon  him.  "  It  has  been  a 
great  pleasure  to  us,  Mr.  Heniker — we  are  so  much 
interested.  It  is  natural.  Lord  Bendish  will  be 
leaving  us,  I  fear — but  he  speaks  very  kindly  of 
future  meetings.  We  have  very  few  friends — neigh- 
bours we  have,  but  hardly  friends." 

Heniker  hoped  that  she  would  count  upon  him. 

"We  shall,  Mr.  Heniker,"  said  the  lady,  "if— 
there  may  be  an  occasion."  Here  she  sighed  and 
glanced  at  Rose's  stiff  young  back.  "Indeed  I  hope 
you  will  visit  us  again." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  me,"  Heniker  said  warmly, 
and  shook  hands.  Rose  faced  him,  but  not  with  the 
eyes.  He  took  her  hand,  bowed  over  it,  and  left 
her  sorrowing. 

Outside  the  door,  upon  the  stair-head,  stood  the 
meditative  Mackintosh,  twirling  a  whisker.  His 
lordship  had  returned  and  would  see  Mr.  Heniker  at 
his  convenience. 

"I'm  going  to  his  lordship  now,"  Heniker  said;  but 
Mackintosh  still  twirled  and  meditated.  At  last  he 
gave  out.  Mackintosh  knew  that  we  were  going 
to  take  our  place  in  the  great  world  again.  Not  that 
anything  had  been  said,  or  any  orders  given.  Not  a 
word.  But — "His  lordship  have  had  Mr.  Stultz 
here.  Twice  he  have  been  down,  fitting  his  lord- 
ship." 

That   settled   it.     Mr.  Stultz  was  the  fashiona- 


52  BENDISH 

ble  tailor — of  Cork  Street.     There  lived  no  greater 
than  he. 

But  Bendish  kept  his  counsel.  He  hailed  his 
friend  cheerfully,  and  received  his  congratulations 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  far  from  him  to  be 
congratulated  except  as  a  matter  of  pohte  conven- 
tion. You  might  as  well  congratulate  the  Sun  upon 
giving  men  sunstrokes.  Success  of  the  thing  had 
been  a  matter  of  course.  Dammy,  the  thing  was 
good.  Those  rascals  knew  a  good  thing.  Let  'em 
praise,  so  long  as  they  wriggled — and  the  more  they 
wriggled  the  louder  they  would  praise.  Success  of 
the  kind,  after  all,  did  not  mean  very  much.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  whip  the  rascals,  but  who  was  going 
to  drill  'em,  who  to  lead  'em?  That  was  what  we 
wanted :  leadership.  Look  at  this  Reform  absurdity. 
What  were  they  doing — raving  at  the  Duke!  Yes, 
but  the  Duke  was  a  good  drill-sergeant;  there  was  no 
better.  It's  no  good  railing  at  a  man,  wagging  your 
chin  at  him,  shaking  your  fist  at  him  when  the  mo- 
ment he  calls  out  Attention!  in  goes  the  one  to  your 
stock,  and  your  other  opens  out  and  feels  for  the 
seam  of  your  breeches.  He  had  the  habit  of  com- 
mand, didn't  Roger  see?  and  the  mob  had  the  habit 
of  obedience.  There's  an  end  of  it.  The  fellows 
wanted  a  leader  of  that  kind,  a  man  who  could 
handle  men.  Lord  Bendish  stiffened  his  fine  small 
head  and  stared  at  Heniker,  pausing  for  a  reply.  He 
looked  every  inch  the  leader  at  the  moment,  and 
felt  it.     Heniker  observed  him  keenly.     So  that  was 


EFFLUENTS  OF  "THE  BILLIAD"  53 

what  he  was  after!  That  was  the  very  latest  out- 
crop of  The  Billiad ! 

The  taking  of  his  seat  was  discussed — by  Heniker. 
Bendjsh  Hstened  as  if  it  was  some  other  man's  seat, 
any  bther  man's,  which  was  in  question.  Peers 
would  have  to  be  found  to  introduce  him,  tv/o  barons. 
Heniker  had  been  wondering  whether  The  Billiad 
might  not  make  it  rather  difficult.  Had  he  left  any 
barons  unwhipt?  And  if  he  had,  would  the  unwhipt 
feel  grateful  for  their  omission,  or  much  more  whipt 
because  of  it?  That's  the  worst  of  the  personal  note 
in  literature.  It  seemed  that  Bendish  had  grimly 
reHshed  the  dilemma.  Mrs.  Bendish  had  named 
Lords  Ravage  and  Ryehouse.  Lord  Bendish  flung 
up  his  head.  Then  there  was  Lord  Newtimber,  a  dis- 
tant connexion.     Lord  Bendish  turned  on  his  heel. 

He  faced  the  fire.  "I  can't  help  you  in  these  sort 
of  tilings,"  he  said.  "  They  are  not  ^\^thin  my  range. 
I  don't  suppose  it  matters  a  curse  what  fools  do  fools' 
work.  I  should  have  said — mind  you,  I  know  noth- 
ing about  it — that  the  officials  would  manage  it  all. 
It's  only  a  thing  of  routine,  I  imagine."  Heniker 
now  pointed  out  that  the  Lord  Chancellor  himself 
had  by  no  means  escaped  the  whip  of  The  Billiad. 
Bendish  shrugged  his  shoulder,  bored.  If  he  was 
really  interested — and  Heniker  beheved  it — he  was 
concealing  it  very  closely.  His  own  notion  was  that 
his  lordship  was  rather  scared  lest  he  should  get  no- 
body to  support  him,  and  was  throwing  up  earth- 
works in  haste.  But  the  truth  is  that  Bendish  was 
mortified  by  his  own  isolation.     He  was  a  peer  with 


54  BENDISH 

very  few  peers,  and  the  friendship  of  what  few  he 
had  was  imperilled  by  The  Billiad.  The  success  of 
that  work  would  easily  have  consoled  him  for  their 
loss;  but  here  was  another  matter.  Here  was  Hen- 
iker  witness  to  the  nakedness  of  his  estate.  A  peer 
casting  about  for  friends — a  triumphant  poet  beg- 
ging at  the  door!  Bendish  was,  as  we  now  say,  very 
sick  indeed.     He  had  been  too  caustic  by  half. 

There  was  no  pressure  put  upon  Roger  to  stay 
to  dinner  to-night.   The  six  o'clock  stage  was  caught. 


CH.\PTER  V 

LORD   BENDISH  IN   THE  UPPER  AIR 

Supporters  in  the  House  were  found  by  the 
joint  exertions  of  Mrs.  Bendish,  who  wrote  tragic 
letters  of  many  sheets,  of  old  Mr,  Heniker,  to  whom 
practice  had  given  a  wheedhng  slope  of  the  shoulder, 
hard  to  be  resisted,  and  by  Roger  with  his  square 
chin  and  humorous  eyes.  Lord  Ravage  refused 
flatly,  calling  Bendish  a  chimney-sweep.  "If  he 
smothers  himself  w^th  soot  from  my  front  chimney," 
said  his  lordship,  "let  him  wash  it  off.  I'm  not  in- 
clined for  the  work."  An  oflScial  in  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor's department  admitted  that  two  barons  might 
be  found — and  named  one — but  went  on  to  say  that 
friends  or  poHtical  sympathisers  were  more  usual 
and  more  acceptable.  "Your  noble  friend,  Mr.  Hen- 
iker, holds  rather  fantastical  notions  of  politics,"  he 
then  said.  "I  don't  know  that  many  of  their  lord- 
ships are  prepared  to  go  his  length."  Roger  sup- 
paged  that  a  good  many  of  their  lordships  neither 
knew  nor  cared  what  lengths  Lord  Bendish  could 
attain.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  "but  he's 
been  talking  about  their  httle  weaknesses — and  un- 
commonly neatly  he's  done  it.  Some  of  them  are 
rather  sore,  Mr.  Heniker,  as  I  happen  to  know." 

55 


56  BENDISH 

"Lord  Bendish  is  very  young,  sir,"  Roger  pleaded; 
but  did  not  help  his  cause. 

The  gentleman  said,  "I  know  he  is.  But  they  are 
not  so  young  as  they  might  be,  some  of  'em.  And 
they  don't  Uke  it." 

However,  the  thing  was  done.  Lord  Ryehouse,  a 
scarlet  and  incredibly  irascible  old  peer,  was  one. 

"Bl 1  him,  I'll  do  it  for  the  sake  of  his  rascal  of 

a  father,  who's  dead.  But  I'll  cut  him  dead  after- 
wards for  his  own  sake."  So  said  Lord  Ryehouse. 
As  for  Lord  Newtimber,  he  was  very  young  and  very 
foolish.  He  would  have  done  anything  for  anybody. 
So  there  you  were. 

These  results  were  communicated  to  Bendish  at 
Golder's  Green,  and  answered  after  many  days — 
from  Hartford  Bridge  Hall!  Now  Hartford  Bridge 
Hall  was  the  Hampshire  house  of  the  Earl  and 

Countess  of  0 ,  where  Bendish  had  better  not 

have  been.  Alas,  for  the  Rose  of  Golder's  Green — 
alas,  for  her  honest  lover!  Heniker's  heart  bled  for 
her;  but  business  had  to  be  done.  The  Winchester 
coach  took  him  down  to  the  great  winged  house 
spread  out  like  a  pink-and-white  fan  in  a  clearing  of 
the  woods — with  a  lake  and  mirrored  swans,  with 
a  Temple  of  Vesta,  and  a  copy  of  John  of  Bologna's 
"Mercury,"  and  deer  in  a  park  about  it — and  ter- 
races to  walk  upon  when  it  was  dry,  and  long  ranges 
of  white-and-gold  chambers  within. 

Here  his  lordship  received  his  lawyer  in  a  room  full 
of  guns  and  whips  and  back  numbers  of  the  Annual 
Register.     Here  his  lordship  was  the  young  man  of 


LORD  BENDISH  IN  THE  UPPER  AIR        57 

fashion,  with  brains  added.  His  dress  was  hand- 
some, and  yet  distinctive.  He  was  the  dandy  with 
a  difference — the  dandy  with  a  poet's  neghgence 
about  the  shirt-collar,  which  was  open  to  the  breast, 
with 'a  suggestion  of  the  statue  of  Sophocles  about 
the  superfine  black  cloak  which  hung  from  his 
shoulders  and  could  be  folded  about  him  with  a 
sweep  of  the  covered  arm. 

He  was  affable,  but  not  to  be  touched.  "Ah,  my 
dear  Roger,  this  is  good  of  you!  Punctual  to  the 
minute.  I  anticipated  it,  and  took  my  precautions. 
You  are  two  hours  before  my  usual  time  for  rising. 
Here  we  play  late — and  deep,  confound  it.  I  must 
ask  for  suppHes,  my  dear  fellow.  Now,  what  were 
we  to  discuss?  " 

Roger,  taking  things  as  they  came,  produced  his 
papers  and  proposals.  But  Bendish  was  in  pick- 
some  mood.  He  scoffed  at  his  two  noble  supporters, 
procured  with  such  pains;  he  called  Lord  Ryehouse 
an  old  Pan-in-breeches,  and  as  for  my  Lord  New- 
timber,  averred  that  a  better  peer  could  be  made  out 
of  the  crumb  of  bread  and  a  couple  of  currants.  Be- 
sides, his  modern  patent  put  him  out  of  the  question. 
He  was  only  the  third  peer  really — indeed,  since  no- 
body knew  who  his  father  was  or  was  not,  was  he 
even  so  much?  "I  must  get  better  furniture  than 
that,  Roger,  if  you  please,"  he  said  finally,  his  back 
to  the  fire.  "I'll  take  Ryehouse  for  my  father's 
sake — but  I  refuse  Newtimber  for  my  mother's. 
His  mother  was  a  cousin  of  mine's — but  not  famous 
for  discretion,  or  taste.     There's  no  reason  for  calling 


58  BENDISH 

remark  upon  our  parents — it's  hardly  decent.  No, 
no,  out  with  him."  Finally,  he  thought  of  a  man 
for  himself.  There  was  Lord  Barwise  here,  in  the 
house,  a  grandson  of  that  old  Lady  Morfa,  the 
beaked  Dowager  of  the  Midlands,  guardian  of  the 
fair  virgin  Hermia  Chambre — bitterly  old,  but  ex- 
tremely famous.     Barwise  would  do.     Take  Barwise. 

Lord  Barwise  was  found  somewhere  in  the  house 
before  Heniker  left  it,  and  agreed.  He  told  Bendish 
that  he'd  be  dehghted,  and  Bendish,  in  reporting 
this  to  his  lawyer,  sneered  at  him  for  his  pains — that 
he  was  easily  pleased. 

Other  matters,  the  Court  of  Claims  and  the  like, 
were  put  off  till  after  the  House  of  Lords.  The  writ 
must  issue,  of  course,  the  robes  and  coronet  must  be 
provided,  the  coach  be  put  in  order;  and  Bendish 
must  have  plenty  of  notice.  His  address  was  here 
for  the  present,  but  St.  James's  Street  would  always 
find  him.  Golder's  Green  was  not  mentioned.  It 
might  never  have  existed.  Plainly  the  idyll  was 
over,  and  Rose  Pierson  thrown  into  the  corner  with 
the  other  toys,  the  masks,  the  Iliad,  the  passable 
claret,  and  Turkish  dressing-gown.  But  she  had 
served  to  inspire  the  Scourge  of  Society,  of  her  had 
sprung,  light  and  fierce  and  irresistible,  The  Billiad. 
What  more  could  she  want?  There  was  nothing  for 
Heniker  to  do  but  acquiesce  in  his  patron's  motions, 
and  the  less  flicker  he  betrayed  in  his  light  blue  eyes 
the  better  for  business.  He  departed,  charged  with 
commissions  which  urgently  related  to  the  finding  of 
money. 


LORD  BENDISH  IN  THE  UPPER  AIR        59 

His  heart  bled  for  Rose,  but  he  literally  dared  not 
haunt  Holborn  Bars  just  yet,  and  had  no  time  for  a 
call.  It  was  mid-November,  wanted  a  month  to 
Christmas  when,  happening  to  pass  the  coach-office, 
he  suddenly  caught  at  his  breath  to  recognise  the 
Mill  Hill  stage  about  to  start.  His  brain  spun.  It 
was  a  Tuesday !  The  coachman  had  gathered  up  his 
reins  and  given  a  final  poke  mth  the  butt  of  his  whip 
to  his  apron  of  blanket.  The  guard  swung  up  to  his 
perch  and  slapped-to  the  door.  Roger's  eyes  darted 
into  the  recesses  of  the  coach.  It  was  empty.  Rose 
came  no  more  to  town  then!  On  Friday  he  went, 
beatingly  but  dehberately,  to  the  place.  She  was 
not  there.  A  week  after  that  he  had  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Welbore  asking  the  favour  of  a  short  interview. 
He  replied  that  he  would  wait  upon  her  on  a  near 
evening;  and  on  Monday,  having  hired  a  horse,  rode 
down  to  Golder's  Green.  A  store  of  tender  concern, 
such  as  he  had  not  guessed  himself  to  possess,  went 
with  him.  He  found  himself  losing  the  lover  in  the 
friend,  vowing  that  he  would  by  all  means  bring 
Bendish  back  to  Rose's  arms — cost  what  it  might, 
feeHng  that  the  cost  would  be  as  nothing  to  the  joy 
of  drying  her  tears. 

Mrs.  Welbore  did  not  affect  disguise  of  her  con- 
cern. She  did  not  affect  anything  at  all.  She 
seemed  very  troubled.  Lord  Bendish,  she  said,  had 
paid  court  to  her  Rose.  They  had  exchanged  vows, 
locks  of  hair.  From  the  very  first  he  had  been  at- 
tracted to  her,  and  latterly  she  (Mrs.  Welbore)  had 
been  prevailed  upon — by  his  lordship's  eloquence — 


6o  BENDISH 

to  look  at  it  as  a  settled  thing.  It  was  madness, 
perhaps,  but —  "I  assure  you,  Mr.  Heniker,  his  lord- 
ship sat  there,  just  where  you  are,  and  spoke  of  Rose 
most  affectionately — with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  said 
that  she  had  changed  his  whole  being.  He  implored 
me  to  sanction  his  addresses.  He  spoke  of  me  also 
in  terms  of  the  greatest  deference  and  respect,  far 
above  my  deserts.     What  could  I  do?  " 

Nothing — Heniker  knew  it  well.  He  asked,  where 
was  Miss  Rose?  Mrs.  Welbore  said  that  she  was 
here,  going  about  her  duties  as  usual;  but  sadly  cast 
down.  She  knew  that  Mr.  Heniker  was  coming,  but 
had  begged  to  be  excused.  Heniker  bowed  his  head 
to  that. 

Then  he  said,  with  grave  signs  of  disturbance  in 
his  honest  face,  "I  should  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  I 
had  hoped  for  your  leave  to  become  suitor  for  your 
niece.  I  can't  profess  to  call  myself  anything  more 
than  an  honest  man,  a  gentleman,  I  hope.  It  is 
not  splendid — but  there's  a  competency,  and  it 
may  be  more.  I  work  hard,  and  there's  plenty 
work  for  me  to  do.  I  am  to  be  my  father's  partner. 
But  in  your  troubles — well,  it  seemed  right  to  tell 
you.". 

He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  from  the  carpet,  to  see  the 
shining  pity  in  the  lady's.  She  indeed  pitied  while 
she  shone.  A  peer  had  offered  himself,  and  this  poor 
young  man  had  hopes — Welladay!  Of  this,  how- 
ever, nothing  in  her  reply. 

"Dear,  dear  me!  But  nothing  to  Rose  of  this, 
Mr.    Heniker.     Of    course — these    are    early    days. 


LORD  BENDISH  IN  THE  UPPER  AIR        6i 

His  lordship's  attentions  could  not  have  been  more 
pronounced.  The  devotion  of  a  noble  poet!  One 
cannot  beheve  that  he — my  poor  Rose — no,  no!" 
She  5vas  very  much  disturbed;  but  presently  be- 
thought her  of  immediate  duty.  "I  shall  respect 
your  confidence,  Mr.  Heniker,  you  may  be  assured. 
If  it  had  been  God's  will — but  we  must  not  question 
His  judgments.  My  wounded  Rose!"  She  found 
her  pocket-handkerchief  and  applied  it.  Heniker, 
in  great  trouble,  asked,  should  he  speak  to  his  lord- 
ship?    Mrs.  Welbore  gasped. 

"Really — I  hardly  know.  Not  as  from  us,  Mr. 
Heniker — on  no  account.  But  I  need  not  say  that, 
I  am  sure.  But  if  you  think — it  would  be  gener- 
ous— ^under  the  circumstances  more  than  generous. 
The  fact  is,  I  must  tell  you,  that  we  have  never  had 
to  do  with  a  gentleman  of  rank — but  you  will  know 
best.  My  husband,  as  a  clergyman,  had  a  great  ac- 
quaintance among  the  rich  and  powerful.  There  was 
Admiral  Gibsley,  and  Sir  Richard  Vinney — I  remem- 
ber him  well,  a  Knight  of  the  Bath.  We  were  almost 
intimate  in  that  house.  But  he  was  quite  an  elderly 
man  at  the  time.  Then  there  used  to  be  Foxhall — 
Squire  Foxhall  they  called  him — whose  daughter  Ann 
married  Sir  Wilkin  Blythe.  They  lived  well — very 
expensively:  in  fact  too  well.  It  couldn't  have  lasted 
longer  than  it  did.  I  used  to  see  what  went  down 
into  the  servants'  hall.  You  would  hardly  believe  it. 
Whole  joints — with  just  a  snick  out  of  them.  But 
Lord  Bendish,  of  course! — One  felt  that  that  was  a 
very  different  matter,  and — "     She  shook  her  head 


62  BENDISH 

and  blinked  over  her  needle.     "I  really  don't  know 
what  to  do  for  the  best.     Ah,  my  poor  child! " 

Heniker  went  his  ways,  more  than  troubled  how 
to  act.  As  a  lover  he  was  passionate  for  his  Rose's 
uplifting.  What  peerage  could  be  tribute  enough  to 
her  beauty  and  exquisite  simplicity?  What  sacri- 
fice enough  could  he  make  to  her?  Would  liis  own 
heart  suffice,  torn  out  and  flung  under  Bendish's 
spurning  heel?  Yes,  but  if  his  judgment  were  to  go 
after  his  heart,  would  that  serve  her?  Her  sim- 
plicity in  the  whirlpool  of  Bendish!  He  saw  her 
standing  piteous  in  a  thin  gown,  distraught  by  the 
gusty  eddies  of  the  town — the  town  and  Bendish  in 
it,  a  white-faced,  mocking  King  of  Revels.  Hateful! 
And  he  had  undertaken  to  further  it!  He  shook  his 
head,  tightened  his  lips,  and  swore  that  he  must  be 
false  to  his  heart  for  her  sake.  Luckily  he  was  spared 
his  pains.  The  next  day  brought  him  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Welbore.  Rose  had  gathered  what  was  afoot, 
and  would  have  none  of  it.  "She  is  quite  positive," 
Mrs.  Welbore  wrote,  "that  nothing  is  to  be  done, 
not  a  word  said.  She  tells  me  that  she  relies  upon 
you.  What  more  can  I  say?"  Nothing,  thank 
the  Lord!  His  conscience  was  clear,  and  he  felt  a 
load  off  him. 

So  to  the  House  of  Lords,  on  a  raw  January  noon. 
There  are  finer  portraits  of  Lord  Bendish  than  that 
which  Spee,  R.A.,  did  of  him  in  his  robes — young, 
bullet-headed,  and  quick-contemptuous,  one  white 
silk  leg  in  advance,  the  crimson  robe  cascading  about 


LORD   BENDISH  IN  THE  UPPER  AIR        63 

in  the  background,  one  hand  to  hold  it  back,  in  the 
other  the  balled  and  tasselled  coronet;  but  it  was  so 
that  he  appeared — a  very  noble  figure  of  a  young 
maA,  if  a  thought  too  conscious  of  his  different  clay — ■ 
to  his  mother  and  his  friends,  on  the  morning  of  that 
day  of  epiphany.  Heniker,  obscurely  in  the  throng, 
admitted  his  different  clay,  and  grudged  him  nothing. 
Literary  friends,  like  bright-eyed  Mr.  Hunt,  like 
twinkling,  twarling  Mr.  Moore,  admitted  it  with  en- 
thusiasm— honest  enthusiasm  that  case  so  splendid 
should  hold  a  dashing  poet.  The  one  glowed,  the 
other  positively  crowed  to  see.  There  were  dandies 
there  too — Berdmore  Wilkes  was  one,  a  lean  and 
tanned  Corinthian;  Sir  Camaby  Hodges  of  Leicester- 
shire, crimson  and  bulging  between  his  buttons; 
Mordaunt,  the  darkly  smiling;  and  Poodle  Byng,  the 

very  fair;  but  there  were  no  peers.     Lord  0 had 

promised,  but  he  had  not  come.  Mrs.  Bendish  had 
counted  upon  Lord  Appleby  up  to  the  last  minute. 
But  The  Billiad  had  been  too  much  for  him — he  had 
figured  in  it  with  his  Keepsake  carollings,  and  at  the 
last  minute  was  d d  if  he  would,  and  didn't. 

But  Bendish  was  in  a  conquering  mood,  and  all 
was  well.  He  went  down  to  the  House  in  his  coach, 
a  Jacobin  to  the  core.  The  Marquis  de  Mirabeau 
was  the  hero  of  the  dreaming  mind,  a  spot  of  intense 
light  in  the  flame-coloured  field — beside  him  the 
Marquis  de  Lafayette.  These  two  gentlemen  were 
his  ghostly  supporters,  shadowing  my  Lords  Rye- 
house  and  Barwise  up  to  the  very  Woolsack. 

The  body  of  the  House  was  rather  empty;  but  the 


64  BENDISH 

galleries  were  filled  with  ladies.    One  waved  a  hand- 
kerchief, I  understand. 

Society  engulfed  the  new  peer,  who  swam  gaily 
among  the  painted  craft  upon  the  flood.  Roger 
Heniker  went  about  his  business  like  a  man,  not  for- 
getting his  love,  and,  it  was  to  appear,  not  forgotten. 
She  had  resumed  her  lessons  in  London;  he  hap- 
pened upon  her  upon  an  afternoon  returning  to  catch 
the  stage,  was  smiled  upon  gravely,  and  allowed  to 
turn  back  upon  her  way.  She  was  quiet  and  pen- 
sive, but  not  so  reserved.  She  seemed  to  have  lost 
some  of  her  maiden  prickles  in  her  recent  grapple 
with  Hfe.  It  did  not  seem  impertinence  in  him  to 
question  her,  not  impossible  for  her  to  ask  him  ques- 
tions. They  parted  hke  old  friends,  and  he  felt 
absurdly  elate.  There  was  no  appointment,  of 
course,  but  certainly  an  understanding  that  she  was 
due  in  town  on  certain  named  days.  He  had  re- 
minded her  of  Tuesdays  and  Fridays — whereupon  she 
had  told  him  clearly  that  now  her  days  were  Mondays 
and  Thursdays.  He  thought  himself  very  bold  (he 
remembered  afterwards  how  bold  he  had  felt)  when 
he  had  repeated  after  her,  "Ah,  Mondays  and  Thurs- 
days!" Her  eyes  had  not  wavered  as  she  had  bowed 
her  confirmation.  He  beHeved  that  a  good  sign — 
not  an  appointment,  of  course,  but  an  understanding 
that  he  should  see  her  on  Monday.  And  so  he  did; 
and  on  Thursday  too.  By  and  by  it  became  almost 
as  of  course  that  they  should  meet,  and  sometimes 
he  thought  that  she  looked  out  for  him.     If  Bendish 


LORD  BENDISH  IN  THE  UPPER  AIR        65 

was  swdmming  in  a  flood  these  late  winter,  early 
spring  days,  his  family  lawyer  was  oaring  the  upper 
air.  Not  once  was  his  lordship  touched  upon  in 
their  talk,  nor  poetry  either.  It  was  all  very  simple, 
no  aoubt,  made  up  of  little  things,  dear  only  to 
lovers.  They  were  gathering,  however,  quite  a  store 
of  trifles  about  which  you  can  ask.  Do  you  remem- 
ber— ?  There's  a  deal  for  a  lover  in  that.  It's  a 
step  in  advance. 

Then  he  rode  down  one  Sunday  and  saw  the  la- 
dies. He  accompanied  them  to  church  in  the  morn- 
ing, dined,  and  took  Rose  for  a  walk  in  the  sere 
fields.  In  a  woodland,  sheltered  from  the  wind,  he 
starmnered  out  his  question  and  got  his  answer. 

He  made  his  essay  gallantly,  extenuating  himself, 
excusing  also  his  temerity.  He  gave  her  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  her  servant  for  life,  whether  she 
would  or  not.  Might  he  hope,  at  any  rate?  Rose 
looked  at  him  presently — gently,  with  brimming  eyes 
and  shaking  head. 

"You  are  very  kind.  You  make  me  proud — and 
contented,  I  think.  But  I  can't."  Then  she  cried 
and  all  his  fire  was  turned  to  cover  her  retreat.  He 
forgot  his  hopes  entirely  before  this  dreadful  fact  of 
her  tears  and  very  present  trouble.  He  calmed  her, 
worked  himself  up  to  a  fine  strain  of  small  talk,  and 
brought  her  home  to  Myrtle  Cottage.  There  he  sat, 
talking  nineteen  to  the  dozen  of  anything,  everything, 
and  nothing  at  all.  He  succeeded.  She  grew  calmer, 
suffered  him  to  take  her  to  evening  church,  and 
smiled  a  friendly  and  grateful  farewell  to  him  at  the 


66  BENDISH 

parting  hour.  In  fact,  the  poor  girl  did  her  best  to 
thank  him.  "You  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me. 
I  can't  speak  about  it — "  "For  God's  sake,  don't 
try, ' '  he  had  interposed.  She  shook  her  head.  ' '  No, 
no,  I  can't.  Good-bye."  "You  will  be  in  town 
to-morrow?"  he  had  asked.  She  had  nodded,  still 
smiling,  and  stood  to  see  him  go.  With  that  he 
must  be  content. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  OUTRE-TOMBE  " 

In  April,  when  lambs  frisk  and  ladies'  eyes  are 
bright  with  promise,  Lord  Bendish  lent  himself  to 
amorousness,  and  was  miderstood  to  be  certainly 
suitor  for  a  very  fair  person,  the  flaxen  Lady  Ann 

H ,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  0 ,  who  was  as 

dumb,  and  some  said  as  cold,  as  a  piece  of  sculptor's 
work,  but  incredibly  handsome  and  very  well  off. 
Rumours  of  this  sounded  in  the  newspapers;  and  in 
club  windows  high-stocked  gentlemen  assured  each 
other  with  nudges,  winks,  and  whispers  behind  the 
hand.  A  taint  of  scandal  helped  to  make  the  affair 
complicated  and  savoury  at  once.  Matre  pulchrd  filia 
pulchrior  was  quoted:  first,  I  believe,  by  Mr.  Moore, 
Anacreon  Moore,  in  a  whisper  which  could  have  been 
heard  across  St.  James's  Street;  but  very  soon  all  the 
pack  had  it,  and  cried  it  from  Highbury  Barn  to 
Peckham  Rye.  It  is  probable  that  some  far-borne 
echo  of  all  this  reached  Golder's  Green,  where  the 
good  Heniker  diligently  served.  He  himself  knew 
all  about  it,  of  course,  hoped  that  the  main  fact  was 
true,  and  left  the  rest  to  the  judgment  of  Heaven. 
He  watched  his  beloved  like  a  terrier  waiting  at  a 
rat-hole,  but  never  tried  to  get  behind  her  reserve, 

67 


68  BENDISH 

which  she,  for  her  part,  never  broke.    The  name  of 
Bendish  was  unheard  between  them. 

But  just  about  that  time  a  matter  of  business  was 
put  into  Roger's  hands  which  was  important  enough 
to  keep  Lord  Bendish  out  of  his  head  for  a  while. 
He  was  sent  for  by  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  who,  in  a 
letter  written  in  his  own  sprawhng  hand,  presented 
his  comphments  to  Mr.  Heniker  the  younger,  and 
desired  his  attendance  at  Wake  House  on  Thursday 
morning  at  ten  of  the  clock,  in  the  forenoon,  "upon 
a  matter  of  private  business,  for  which  his  services 
have  been  recommended  to  the  Duke  by  Mr.  Tre- 
menheer,  his  legal  adviser,"  Now  Mr.  Tremenheer 
was  a  great  man  in  the  law,  one  of  the  hierarchy, 
whose  offices  were  in  Mayfair,  but  the  limits  of  his 
power  over  all  the  Inns  of  Court.  To  be  put  forward 
by  Mr.  Tremenheer  was  honour  enough  for  a  young 
man  not  long  admitted;  to  be  put  forward  into  the 
Duke's  notice  was  a  thunderclap  of  honour.  For  if 
Tremenheer  was  a  great  lawyer,  the  Duke  was  a 
great  man.  It  would  be  hard  to  name  a  greater  in 
England.  He  was  a  man  who  by  his  personal  force 
alone  had  held  off  Reform,  and  continued  to  hold  it, 
though  towns  flamed  and  armed  hordes  besieged 
Palace  Yard.  He  was  much  more  famous  than  the 
King.  When  you  spoke  of  the  Lords,  you  implied 
the  Duke  of  Devizes;  when  you  named  England  to 
the  Councils  of  Europe  you  as  good  as  named  him. 
Upon  young  Heniker  and  his  little  particular  eddy 
in  the  great  river  of  affairs  you  could  not  have  had  a 
greater  effect  if  you  had  sent  a  scarlet  rider  from 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  69 

Windsor  into  Field  Place.  Such  a  summons  as  this 
might  have  made  even  Bendish  forget  his  different 
clay  for  a  minute  or  two,  though  he  would  have  died 
sooner  than  admit  it,  even  to  himself.  Old  Mr. 
Heniker,  rounding  his  chin  with  his  soft  pink  hand 
or  furrowing  in  his  white  whiskers,  was  a  study  in 
twinkles  and  quirks  when  Roger  brought  him  in  the 
stiff,  gilt-edged  sheet.  Sly  pleasure  flickered  about 
his  face  like  the  Hghtning  of  summer  nights.  "Aha, 
my  boy,  we  are  making  way  in  the  world !  Now  we 
see  what  Harrow  may  be  worth  to  a  young  man  of 
parts!  Now  let  me  tell  you  that  this  is — aha! — not 
wholly  unexpected."  He  was  fond  of  double  nega- 
tives, especially  when  he  was  pleased.  They  seemed 
to  let  down  his  dignity  gently  into  jocularity,  as  you 
use  rollers  to  launch  a  liner. 

"No,  no,"  he  went  on,  leaning  at  ease  over  his 
elbow-chair  and  looking  up  to  the  ceiling,  tossing  also 
his  foot  as  you  might  dance  a  baby — "the  fact  is 
that  I  and  Tremenheer  happened  to  meet,  not  so 
long  ago,  at  the  Cutlers'  Feast.  We  were  vis-a-vis; 
he  is  always  very  fair-spoken  to  me — Tremenheer — 
sour-faced  old  boy,  too  much  the  great  man,  but — 
no,  no,  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  By  and  by 
he  asked  me  about  you — spoke  of  his  boy  Jack  too. 
I  reminded  him  you  had  been  schoolfellows  on  the 
hill.  'To  be  sure  they  were,'  says  he.  'That's  how 
I  have  your  Roger  in  mind  now.  Steady  fellow,  I 
hear.'  I  said  that  there  was  nothing  to  quarrel 
with  in  that  quarter,  but  I  was  easy  with  the  old 
boy,  you  know,  for  I  hear  that  Jack  Tremenheer's 


70  BENDISH 

in  the  cavalry,  and  that  we  don't  altogether  like  the 
life  he's  leading.  No,  no,  we  are  not  too  happy 
about  Master  Jack  and  his  fine  friends.  Well,  then, 
after  one  thing  and  another,  he  ups  and  mentions 
this  matter  of  the  Duke's.  Says  he  can't  take  it  up 
— has  no  one  to  send — delicate  job,  he  tells  me.  I 
rather  fancy,  you  know,  it's  not  altogether  uncon- 
nected with  the  Lancelot  divorce — sad  affair  that 
was — his  Grace  has  never  been  quite  the  same  man, 
they  tell  me.  But,  you  know,  his  Grace  is — well, 
well!  Sunt  quos  curriculis  pulverem  Olympiciim — 
hey,  you  rascal?  His  Grace  was  never  averse  to 
the  ladies,  let's  admit.  To  put  it  no  stronger,  hey? 
But,  by  Heaven,  that  don't  make  him  Hghter-handed 
with  the  men.  The  reins  of  State,  hey?  He's  a 
whip,  is  the  Duke.  But  now  Mr.  Lancelot's  dead 
I  don't  know  what  may  be  in  the  wind.  He  may  be 
for  another  installation  at  Wake  House.  However, 
that  will  be  for  you  to  tell  me,  unless  your  mouth  is 
sealed,  of  course."  He  gazed  pleasantly  before  him 
and  recalled  himself  with  an  effort  to  present  affairs. 
Roger  replied  to  his  summons  that  he  would  wait 
upon  his  Grace  at  the  hour  appointed. 

He  found  the  great  man,  locally  remote  in  his  vast 
house,  at  the  end  of  a  long,  thick-piled  corridor, 
behind  folding  mahogany  doors,  and  then  at  the 
farther  end  of  a  library  of  many  windows.  He  was 
standing  to  write  with  a  turkey  quill,  a  spruce  figure 
of  a  frosty,  elderly  gentleman,  spare  on  his  white 
poll,  trim  and  spare  in  the  white  whisker  which  was 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  71 

brushed  forward  to  his  cheek  and  cut  off  straight  to 
a  point  level  with  the  cheek-bone.  He  wore  a  dark- 
blue  frock,  canary-yellow  waistcoat,  and  nankeen 
trousers  tightly  strapped.  His  face  was  brick-red 
and  his  eyes  were  cold  blue — the  blue  of  a  glacier 
in  the  sun.  His  manner  was  easy,  but  very  dry. 
He  took  snuff  daintily,  and  was  distressed  at  a  speck 
remaining  on  his  sleeve.  He  had  a  thin-Hpped 
mouth,  like  a  trap,  and  seldom  looked  at  you  when 
he  talked.  If  by  any  chance  he  did,  it  was  a  signal 
for  your  instant  obedience. 

He  nodded  pleasantly,  glancing  up  at  his  visitor, 
finished  his  letter  and  signed  it  with  care.  Then  he 
left  his  desk  and  went  towards  the  fire,  holding  out 
his  fine  hands  to  it.  The  sun  was  full  upon  it  and 
made  it  a  garish  thing;  yet  the  Duke  seemed  chilly. 

Presently  he  turned  his  back  to  it  and  began: 
"My  friend  Charles  Lancelot  died  last  Christmas 
and  made  me  his  executor.  I  wish  he  hadn't,  but 
it's  one  of  those  things  a  man  doesn't  refuse  his 
friend.  Now  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  it, 
but  it's  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you'  that  I  was  very 
fond  of  his  wife,  and  still  am.  She's  ahve  and  living 
abroad,  in  Italy,  married  to  the  man  she  ran  away 
with,  a  young  fellow  named  Poore — Gervase  Poore. 
My  friend  Lancelot  behaved  romantically  in  the 
affair.  He  didn't  condone  it — though  I  do,  myself 
— but  he  accepted  it  as  a  beating.  More  than  that, 
he  went  home  and  put  a  divorce  through  as  decently 
and  quietly  as  such  a  thing  can  be  done;  and  then 
did  his  best  to  renounce  her  marriage-settlement,  and 


72  BENDISH 

get  her  money  resettled  on  her  new  marriage.  How- 
ever, nothing  came  of  that,  because  the  Poores 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  The  young  man's  as  poor  as  a 
rat,  but  he's  got  the  pride  of  the  devil,  and  I  like 
him  for  it.  As  for  her,  you  mustn't  ask  me  to  say 
much.  I'm  not  a  fair  judge  of  her.  We'll  leave  her 
out  as  far  as  we  can.  .  .  .  Well,  now  Lancelot  dies. 
He  dies  with  her  name  on  his  Hps — it  was  Hterally 
the  last  word  he  breathed  (for  I  was  with  him  and 
heard  it) — and  with  her  affairs,  it's  evident,  in  his 
head,  or  heart,  whichever  you  please.  He  makes  me 
his  executor,  and  leaves  all  his  property,  I'll  trouble 
you,  to  this  fellow  Poore — not  to  her,  but  to  Poore — 
in  trust  for  her  and  the  children  of  the  marriage,  if 
there  be  any;  and  there  are,  you  know — and  if  there 
ain't  as  many  more  as  you  please  it  will  be  a  very- 
odd  thing,  in  my  opinion.  Well,  Mr.  Heniker,  here's 
what  I  want  of  you.  I  want  you  to  go  out  to  Ra- 
pallo,  where  the  Poores  live,  and  get  them  to  take 
this  gift  from  the  grave.  They  ought  to  do  it.  I've 
said  so  in  writing — but  I  have  my  doubts  and  fears. 
My  friend  will  walk  if  they  don't;  the  grass  won't 
grow  on  him.  I  think  she'd  do  it,  but  for  him;  and 
I  desire  you  to  get  hold  of  her,  rather  than  him.  If 
you  succeed  in  putting  her  right  with  the  dead  man's 
view  of  the  thing,  you  may  leave  her  to  talk  over  the 
hving  man.  Trust  a  woman  to  do  that,  when  once 
she  sees  what  she  ought  to  do.  .  .  . 

Here  the  Duke  paused,  took  snuff  prodigiously, 
and  then  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  Turkey 
carpet.    Heniker  watched  him,   feeling   sure   that 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  73 

there  was  more  to  come,  and  that  what  was  to  come 
was  more  important.  And  evidently  it  was.  The 
Duke  returned  to  the  fire,  and  spoke  with  studious 
detachment,  which  in  itseK  was  significant.  "There's 
another  thing  you  can  do  while  you're  at  it.  You'll 
use  your  discretion.  There's  no  valid  reason  that 
I  can  see  against  her  coming  back  to  England.  She's 
a  widow  as  well  as  a  wife;  she  can  make  herself 
doubly  a  wife  if  she  sets  so  much  store  by  the  Church 
as  all  that  comes  to — and  I  don't  say  she's  wrong  in 
that,  mind  you.  I'd  let  a  woman  go  to  church  with  a 
man  once  a  week,  so  long  as  it  was  the  same  man,  if  it 
helped  her  to  bear  with  him  and  his  airy  ideas." 
Here  the  Duke  blinked,  then  cleared  his  throat, 
stiffened  himself,  and  said,  "Damme,  she  ought  to 
come  home.  She  don't  know  how  much  her  friends 
want  to  see  her  again." 

Heniker  began  to  perceive — though  he  couldn't 
articulate  his  vision — that  his  part  was  to  be  more 
diplomatic  than  legal.  It  was  probable  that,  to  do 
his  business  efficiently,  he  must  urge  pity  for  this 
very  unpitiable  great  man.  Here  he  was,  master  of 
England,  sufficient  unto  himself  if  ever  man  was, 
and  asserting  sufficiency  in  every  line  of  his  upright 
body,  and  in  every  dry  phrase  of  his  upright  mind — 
and  yet,  even  Roger  could  see,  he  wanted  this  lady 
to  complete  his  well-being. 

Roger,  after  waiting  a  moment  for  the  Duke  to 
continue,  said,  "I'll  go,  my  Lord,  as  soon  as  may 
be.  If  your  Grace  will  let  me  see  Mr.  Lancelot's 
will,  and  the  marriage-settlement,  I  shall  be  obliged." 


74  BENDISH 

"You  shall  have  'em,"  the  Duke  said.  "As  for 
your  starting,  take  your  time.  You've  plenty.  But 
it's  apt  to  be  hot  there  towards  the  end  of  May.  I 
was  out  there  in  June,  when  she — ";  but  he  didn't 
finish  the  phrase.  He  had  been  remembering  it  was 
in  June  that  she  had  left  Lancelot  and  him  alone  in 
a  great  castle  in  the  woods,  had  joined  Poore,  her 
lover,  and  fled  with  him  no  farther  than  Rapallo. 
There  the  pair  of  them  had  awaited  the  two  gentle- 
men, and  there  Poore  had  confronted  them  and  their 
pistols  and  routed  them  without  a  shot  fired.  The 
Duke  was  not  likely  to  have  forgotten  that,  but  never 
spoke  of  it  except  to  himself.  He  had  forgotten  at 
this  moment  that  he  wasn't  alone. 

Heniker  hastened  to  assure  his  Grace  that  he 
should  be  ofi  long  before  the  end  of  May.  He  had 
one  or  two  Bendish  matters  to  put  through.  The 
Coronation  claim  was  one;  but  that  was  as  good  as 
done.  He  thought  that  he  should  certainly  be  ready 
in  a  month.    The  Duke  nodded  once  or  twice. 

"That's  excellent.  I'll  write  to  her  to-day  to  an- 
nounce you,  and  you  shall  take  letters  from  me. 
Now  I  needn't  keep  you  any  longer.  Ask  for  my 
secretary  as  you  go  out,  and  he'll  give  you  every- 
thing you  want.     Good  morning." 

He  had  pulled  the  bell  and  was  by  now  answered. 
"Take  this  gentleman  to  Mr.  Shorthope,"  was  the 
order.  Two  more  friendly  nods,  Roger  was  out 
of  the  room,  and  himself  again  at  his  standing  desk. 

A  few  days  after  this  interview,  perhaps  a  week. 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  75 

it  so  happened  that  the  name  of  Poore  cropped  up 
at  a  dumer-party  given  by  Lord  Bendish,  at  which 
Roger  was  present  with  some  hterary  celebrities. 
Mr.  IJunt  and  Mr.  Moore  were  capping  verses  across 
the  table — Bendish  sitting  glum  to  his  port,  as  he 
was  apt  to  do  when  the  verses  were  not  his  verses. 
Hunt  had  cried  up  to  the  skies  the  graphic  power  of 
his  poor  friend  Keats  in  the  line — 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murdered  man, 

used  of  a  man  whose  doom  was  fixed,  but  the  stroke 
not  yet  fallen. 

Moore  had  chirrupped  agreement.  "I  can't  beat 
it,  Mr.  Hunt — it  would  puzzle  even  our  noble  friend 
here  to  beat  it.  But  that  word  murdered,  let  me 
tell  you,  drips  with  horror,  wets  you  with  the  clammy 
stuff  of  its  own  force.  Now  do  you  remember  the 
pome  of  me  friend  Poore — poor  Gervase  Poore,  the 
impetuous  lover — ?  'Tis  a  classical  piece  where  he's 
talking  of  the  red  Gods  of  the  time  before  Olympus 
was  made  golden  by  Vulcan,  and  he  recalls  'em  and 
their  tragedy  in  a  line — 

Kronos,  and  Ge,  and  murdered  Ouranos. 

'Tis  a  proof  of  what  I'm  saying.  How  now,  Ben- 
dish?" He  turned  to  his  moody  host,  who  gloomed 
upon  him,  and  presently  said,  "I've  read  Poore. 
If  he  knew  more  he'd  write  less.  But  he's  not  a 
dunce." 


76  BENDISH 

Hunt  subscribed  to  that.  "Not  he,  my  lord. 
He's  a  white  heat,  who  turns  his  learning  into  ash 
the  minute  he  has  it,  and  roars  for  more." 

Bendish  Ufted  his  eyebrows:   "A  volcanic  bard!" 

"An  apostle!"  cried  Hunt.  "He  will  lift  and 
carry  the  fiery  cross."  Bendish  frowned.  He  had 
his  own  ideas  at  this  moment  about  fiery  crosses;  and 
one  couldn't  have  two  apostles  at  the  same  time  in 
England.  The  country's  too  small  for  it.  So  he 
frowned,  and  then  showed  himself  supercihous. 

"Whither,  my  good  Hunt?"  Mr.  Moore,  always 
tactful,  cut  in  on  a  slant. 

"He  made  me  poor  friend  Lancelot  blench  before 
it — his  white  heat — not  so  long  ago,"  he  said.  "Did 
your  lordship  ever  meet  the  Lancelots?  Hardly. 
They  were  in  the  enemy's  camp.  Wake  House  was 
their  citadel."  Bendish  tossed  his  fine  head.  He 
considered  the  Duke  as  his  only  serious  rival  for  the 
headship  of  Britain.  But  Moore  ran  on.  "She  was 
a  lovely  woman,  upon  my  soul.  Like  a  wisp  of  rosy 
cloud,  a  scarf  upon  the  blue.  But  the  ether  shows 
no  such  blue  over  Britain  as  her  fine  pair  of  eyes. 
Now  the  Duke,  saving  your  lordship's  presence  (who 
like  him  not),  was  her  first  conquest,  but  Gervase 
was  her  second,  and  'twas  he  that  led  captivity  cap- 
tive. Begad,  he  got  her,  and  has  her  yet.  'Tis  a 
strenuous  poet." 

Heniker,  happening  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  speaker, 
allowed  himself  to  ask.  What  part  the  husband  had 
played  in  this  affair?  Mr.  Moore  flacked  his  fingers 
at  the  dead  Lancelot. 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  77 

"A  shadowy  third,  me  dear  sir,  a  skeleton  at  the 
feast.  He  grew  unsubstantial  under  me  very  eyes, 
from  the  very  first  a  shawl-bearer,  the  poor  man,  he 
hovered  in  the  background.  He  looked  always  in  the 
glass  of  his  mind  and  saw  himself  there  the  suffering 
gentleman.  That  pleased  him  so  much  that  I  doubt 
he  forgot  his  sufferings  in  satisfied  contemplation. 
He  had  no  chance  with  the  Duke — nor,  if  you'll  be- 
lieve me,  gentlemen,  the  Duke  with  Gervase.  Ger- 
vase  was,  let  me  say,  the  most  male  of  the  three. 
Nature  favours  the  male,  being  herself  of  the  other 
sex,  we  believe.  Now  they  tell  me  that  Lancelot 
when  he  died  left  her  a  little  plum,  and  so  the  way's 
clear  for  her  to  come  home.  There's  one  great  man 
not  a  mile  from  Wake  House  will  be  glad  to  see 
her.  But  will  she  come?  WTiat  will  Gervase  say 
to  ut?  If  he  will,  well  and  good!  Then  she  comes, 
you  may  be  sure.  Nature,  me  dear  sir,  favours 
the  male." 

"And  you  also,  Tom  ]\Ioore,"  said  Mr.  Hunt, 
beaming  upon  him.  "All  my  feelings  are  with  the 
lady,  whom  I  am  inclined  to  pity.  A  man  may  be 
too  much  of  a  male — and  a  poet  should  not  be." 

"You  may  spare  your  pity,  me  good  Hunt,"  Moore 
said  warmly.  "Me  friends  the  Poores  are,  I  believe, 
as  snug  as  fish  in  the  sea.  And  how  would  you  have 
a  poet  hermaphrodite?  A  sonnet  to  her  eyebrow's 
well  enough,  or  an  epithalamy  at  the  door.  But 
there's  a  wilder  music  for  a  married  pair.  And  me 
friend's  the  boy  for  the  chune — or  I  mistake  him." 

Bcndish  was  listening  closely,  though  all  his  effort 


78  BENDISH 

was  to  seem  uninterested.  '*You  believe  in  him, 
Tom?"    Moore's  black  eyes  stared. 

"Believe  in  him!"  he  cried.  "Why,  I  love  him!" 
He  dehghted  his  friend  Hunt. 

"Tom,  you  are  priceless.  I  never  heard  a  worse 
reason  for  believing  in  a  man,  nor,  by  Heaven,  a 
better.    It's  the  case  with  me  too." 

"We'll  toast  him  and  his  fair  lady  together."  He 
lifted  his  glass.  "To  the  Poet  and  Nausithoe!"  It 
was  drunk,  but  Bendish  just  touched  the  rim  of  his 
glass  and  put  it  down.  There  was  a  good  deal  for 
him  to  consider  in  all  this.  A  Poet — a  pretty  woman 
— and  himself.  Here  he  was,  you  see,  with  his  foot 
on  the  ladder,  about  to  start  upwards — and  to  be 
told  that  he  might  expect  to  find  a  white-hot  Poet 
upon  an  upper  rung,  with  a  pretty  woman  under  his 
arm  whom  he  had  taken  away  from  husband  and 
lover — that  lover  the  Duke!  All  this  was  as  serious 
as  you  please. 

Hunt  began  upon  politics  after  this,  speculating 
how  long  the  Duke  would  hold  out,  or  the  country 
endure  the  spectacle  of  miUions  of  men  held  back 
by  one  hand  in  a  white  buckskin  glove.  In  its  way 
it  was  a  fine  spectacle,  he  said.  Bonaparte  had 
dragooned  a  nation,  led  it  headlong  to  victory, 
drawn  it  orderly  out  of  defeat — but  he  had  worked 
with  the  apparatus  of  kingship.  Eagles  had  rocked 
and  tossed  before  his  men's  eyes,  songs  had  inflamed 
their  hearts;  purple  and  ermine,  the  Pope  and  the 
Sacrament  had  lent  their  magic.  But  the  Duke 
stood  up  in  a  blue  surtout,  a  cool  elderly  country 


"OUTRE-TOMBE"  79 

gentleman — and  marching  myriads  stood  still.  A 
fine  sight;  but  if  there  was  blood  left  in  England  it 
should  boil  to  behold  it. 

Mcfore  said,  "Gervase's  would  boil  were  he  here." 
Then  Lord  Bendish  rose  up. 

"The  poet  is  a  poor  hand  with  the  sword " 

"There  was  Sophocles,"  Mr.  Hunt  observed,  and 
annoyed  his  host. 

"We  don't  know,  I  fancy,  very  much  about  the 
sword-play  of  Sophocles.  A  man  must  be  bom  to 
lead.  IMirabeau  had  the  habit  of  command;  La- 
fayette had  it." 

"Devizes  has  it,"  said  Heniker,  and  Bendish 
looked  hard  at  him. 

"We'll  find  him  a  Mirabeau  one  of  these  days, 
my  dear  fellovv^,"  he  said.  "Shall  we  go  upstairs?" 
They  did,  but  found  their  host  take  a  fit  of  silence 
and  gloom,  which  not  even  Tom  Moore  could  break 
through.  Bendish  was  considering  what  steps  were 
necessary  in  order  to  wipe  the  Duke  of  Devizes  out 
of  his  poHtical  path — and  Gervase  Poore  out  of  his 
poetical.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  call  his  soul  his 
own  until  something  decisive  had  been  done  in  the 
business. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MANTLE   OF  MIRABEAU 

Ardour  and  Ambition  were  partners  in  the  mind 
of  young  Lord  Bendish,  and  worked  well  for  him  in. 
the  main;  but  there  was  this  queer  defect  in  the 
picture  which  they  made  for  him,  that  they  showed 
him  to  himself  passive,  not  active;  receiving  homage, 
not  compelling  it.  They  overleaped  themselves; 
they  took  his  merits  for  granted,  and  showed  him 
England,  or  Europe,  acknowledging  them  with  ac- 
claim. In  all  the  moving  scenes,  then,  which  he 
called  up  at  whim  or  upon  some  chance  suggestion 
from  outside,  one  was  always  omitted — that  which 
showed  him  procuring  the  triumphs  of  the  rest.  He 
saw  himself  reading  his  poem,  being  hailed  as  chief 
of  poets,  crowned  with  laurels  and  the  rest — but  not 
writing  the  glorious  work.  He  was  drinking  adora- 
tion from  a  woman's  eyes,  but  not  compelling  it 
there.  He  was  chosen  leader  of  hosts,  but  not  a 
candidate.  The  peers  sat  spellbound  when  he  re- 
sumed his  seat,  or  the  thunder  of  acknowledgment 
brake  about  him  like  a  storm  after  a  moment  of 
solemn  hush;  but  he  never  heard  the  speech  which 
induced  such  ovation,  nor  felt  himself  make  it. 
That  he  took  for  granted.    You  see,  his  was  a  san- 

80 


THE  MANTLE  OF  MIRABEAU  8i 

guine  temperament.  It  raced  to  the  mark,  and  once 
there,  saw  itself  the  winner  with  perfect  clearness. 

When  he  had  first  projected  the  audacious  Billiad, 
he  h^d  seen  exactly  how  he  would  bear  himself  in 
the  rfioment  of  success,  how  calmly  he  would  face 
the  irritation  of  men,  how  generously  the  open-eyed 
approbation  of  women.  All  the  clue  he  had  had  to 
the  detail  of  his  hardy  satire  had  been  picked  up 
from  the  faces  of  the  scourged,  and  from  his  own  be- 
holding them — but  these  had  been  as  clear  before 
him  as  the  face  of  day.  He  had  argued  cause  from 
effect.  So  he  had  gone  to  work,  and  on  the  whole 
had  succeeded  in  pleasing  himself.  His  reception 
had  been  happy — it  tallied  with  the  dream. 

This  sort  of  thing  a  man  may  do  a  dozen  times, 
if  he  happen  to  be  right  in  his  reading  of  the  effect. 
This  will  depend  upon  whether  he  knows  the  world 
with  which  he  works.  Now  smarting  men  and  tribu- 
tary women  were  familiar  denizens  of  Bendish's 
world;  but  he  had  no  experience  of  men  indifferent. 
When,  therefore,  he  began  to  meditate  his  maiden 
speech  in  the  House  of  Lords  he  worked  by  his  usual 
methods  hi  a  world  unfamiliar.  The  result  was  a 
cold  bath. 

He  saw  in  his  golden  forecast  the  House  cool  and 
undemonstrative,  but  keenly  interested.  He  saw 
himself  sit  down  in  the  midst  of  a  low  murmur  of 
sound;  he  was  surprised  (in  his  day-dream)  at  his 
own  lack  of  emotion.  He  knew  himself  a  cool  hand 
— but  had  thought  that  this  might  stir  him.  He  no- 
ticed how  careful  he  was  to  keep  his  eyes  away  from 


82  BENDISH 

galleries — to  ignore  the  galleries  altogether — where 
plumed  heads  bent  to  each  other,  and  white  shoulders 
shifted,  and  handkerchiefs  fluttered,  but  in  vain. 
He  saw  the  Duke  of  Devizes  take  snuff  and  rise  to 
answer  him;  he  heard  him  rasp,  guessed  him  put  out. 
He  heard  the  warm  commendations  of  Lord  Grey, 
and  acknowledged  them  afterwards  in  the  lobby  w4th 
just  that  mixture  of  self-respect  and  courtesy  which 
the  honour  demanded  even  of  himself.  From  these 
glowing  visions  he  harked  back  to  the  speech  he 
intended  to  make — the  speech  of  the  author  of  The 
Billiad  to  the  victims  of  it,  whose  grudging  admira- 
tion he  was  destined  to  compel.  He  worked  at  it 
with  ardour,  and  took  great  pains,  denying  himself 
to  the  world  for  a  week  or  two.  Nobody  of  impor- 
tance was  in  his  secret;  when  Bendish  was  deliberate, 
he  was  very  close. 

But  he  confided  in  Heniker,  who  was  of  no  impor- 
tance, partly  for  that  reason  and  partly  because  he 
really  had  an  affection  for  him.  Heniker,  calling 
with  leases  to  sign,  found  him  immersed  in  books. 
Bendish  got  up  to  receive  him  and  pushed  them  away 
from  him  with  impatience. 

"Pouf !  My  good  fellow,  you  come  apropos.  I've 
been  stuffing  myself  with  wind.  Please  to  blow  some 
of  it  out  of  me." 

"What's  all  this?"  Roger  asked,  handling  a  vol- 
ume. "Demosthenes?  Are  you  moulding  your 
taste?" 

"Cleansing  my  palate,  I  hope,"  said  Bendish. 
"That  old  boy  has  an  astringent  quahty.     He'll  do 


THE  MANTLE  OF  MIRABEAU  83 

me  good.    You  know,  Roger,  I  sicken  of  the  world 
very  soon.     It  doesn't  suit  me." 

"Well,"  Roger  said,  "you  don't  stint  yourself." 

"No,  no — of  course  you're  right,  and  of  course  I 
overstep  the  bounds.  But  it  amuses  me — I  can't 
afford  ennui.  That  maddens.  But  one  is  aware, 
at  one's  wildest,  just  how  much  applause  is  worth. 
One  can  always  get  back.  I  give  you  my  word,  I've 
not  dined  out  of  these  rooms  for  ten  days.  Nor  have 
I  had  a  man  in  since  you  were  here  with  our  two 
poets-about-town.  By  the  by,  what  did  you  think 
about  the  poet  Poore?  Did  it  strike  you  that  they 
pitched  him  rather  high?  I've  been  turning  him 
over  since." 

"I  don't  read  poetry,"  Roger  admitted.  "But  he 
seems  to  have  had  a  way  with  him."  Bendish  was 
thoughtful. 

"You  mean  that  he  faced  old  Devizes?  Yes,  he 
did — in  the  boudoir.  But  what  could  the  fellow  do 
in  the  open?  There's  notliing  here,  you  know,  to 
teU  one."  He  rapped  a  thin  green  volume,  picked 
it  up  and  let  it  drop  again  without  looking  at  it. 
"Liberty  and  Equahty  are  ver>^  line  things.  You 
may  write  of  them  or  abstract  a  man's  mistress  in 
their  name.  But  can  you  lead  men  towards  them? 
Can  you  reprove  the  world  of  sin,  righteousness,  and 
judgment  by  means  of  them?  Ah,  my  good  fellow, 
the  test  is  there.  You  must  deal  pubhcly  with  public 
things."  Once  more  he  picked  up  the  green  book 
and  shook  it  in  the  air.  "Do  you  think  there's  the 
sim  of  a  tribune  in  Nausilhoe  and  Other  Poems  ? 


84  BENDISH 

There's  neither  Cleon  nor  Themistocles.  I  had  his 
Roland  sent  me — I  picked  that  over,  too.  Oh, 
Poore  had  force,  I  grant  you.  But — "  He  shrugged 
Poore  away.  "The  times  want  a  leader."  He 
straightened  himself  and  looked  at  his  friend.  "The 
times  must  be  obliged." 

He  went  on  after  a  short  silence.  "  How  does  Lord 
Grey  strike  you?  You  are  a  reformer,  of  course,  and 
so  is  he.  But  does  he  inspire  you?  Burdett  too,  and 
his  mob.  He's  at  the  head  of  them,  I  grant  you. 
But  so's  the  pig  you  drive  to  market.  Clanranald 
might  have  done  more.  All  his  fire  seems  to  have 
gone  out  since  he  became  a  peer.    Whom  else  have 

we?     Cobbett — pooh,  the  man's  a  boor.      S ? 

D ?  old  N ?    Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  we  can't 

get  on  at  this  rate.  ...  I  thought  that  one  might 
whip  a  spirit  into  'em, — but  it  seems  the  brine  is  not 
made  which  will  sting  their  hides.  Another  way  of 
blowing  up  a  house  is  from  within.  Well,  we  shall 
see.  .  .  ." 

Heniker  gathered  from  all  this,  and  a  good  deal 
more,  what  was  in  the  wind.  It  was  no  business  of 
his,  however,  and  he  thought  little  about  it,  little 
knowing  what  the  upshot  was  to  be,  or  how  it  would 
touch  his  private  affairs. 

There  was  a  motion  before  their  lordships'  house 

fixed  for  a  certain  day,  a  motion  of  Lord  S 's  to 

"inquire  into  the  State  of  the  Nation,"  which  that 
amiable  enthusiast  produced  every  year,  and  had 
solemnly    debated    and    rejected.     It    was    always 


THE  MANTLE  OF  MIRABEAU  85 

treated  with  the  utmost  parade  of  seriousness  by 
both  sides  of  the  House,  and  meant  precisely  noth- 
ing at  all.  Into  this  sea  of  pretence  Lord  Bendish, 
desperately  in  earnest,  plunged  with  a  resounding 
smacK;  among  its  canvas  waves  he  wallowed;  and 
finally  he  emerged  as  dry  as  he  went  in,  tumbled  and 
somewhat  dirty.  It  should  have  been  a  sobering 
experience  for  him,  but  he  was  bitterly  mortified. 
The  fact  was  that  nobody  took  any  notice;  his  fiery 
periods,  which  had  been  fierier  if  they  had  been  less 
rhetorical,  worked,  with  all  the  rest,  into  the  dreary 
decorum  of  the  afternoon.  The  Duke  was  in  his 
place,  reading  and  writing  notes;  Lord  Grey  chatted 
with  a  noble  friend  behind  him,  sprawling  over  the 
back  of  his  bench.  When  the  time  came  each  of 
these  great  men  rose  in  his  place  and  murmured  a 
few  polite  and  perfunctory  phrases.  The  noble  Earl 
did,  it  is  true,  refer  to  Bendish,  as  "the  noble  lord, 
new  to  your  lordships'  house,  whose  eloquence  and 
erudition,  joined  as  these  are  to  enthusiasm  for  the 
liberty  and  enhancement  of  mankind,  cannot  have 
failed  to  impress  your  lordships  with  his  sincerity' ' ; 
but  the  Duke  said  nothing  about  Bendish  at  all.  His 
point — his  only  point — was  that  the  State  of  the 
Nation  was  as  good  as  could  be  expected  under  pres- 
ent circumstances,  and  would  be  very  much  better 
if  amiable  philosophers  would  leave  it  alone.  The 
Nation,  it  was  his  opinion,  desired  mainly  to  mind  its 
business,  which  was  buying  and  selling.  It  was,  he 
suggested  to  their  lordships,  a  case  of  too  many 
doctors.    The  patient  was  expected  to  put  his  tongue 


86  BENDISH 

out  twice  an  hour,  when  once  a  year  would  be  better. 
He  was  aware  that  the  noble  Earl  who  had  moved 
the  House  only  called  himself  in  precisely  once  a 
year;  but  there  were  other  and  more  diligent  prac- 
titioners than  he.  For  this  reason,  if  for  no  better, 
he  should  vote  as  usual,  against  the  motion. 

One  or  two  other  noble  lords  spoke,  but  languidly, 
and  the  debate  guttered  out  like  a  spent  candle. 
Nothing  at  all  about  rick-burnings,  machine-smash- 
ings,  and  such  bubblings  of  muddy  pools.  Not  even 
Bendish,  new  as  he  was  to  oratory,  had  ventured  to 
hint  at  the  starving  plough-hands.  He  had  confined 
himself  to  reform,  and  had  been  deliberately  aca- 
demic upon  that  topic.  He  had  had  an  inward 
prompting  to  let  himself  go — to  be  bitter,  to  be 
caustic,  to  open  his  cloak  for  a  moment  and  let  their 
lordships  see  the  gleaming  of  the  fiery  cross.  But 
his  heart  had  failed  him.  Really — to  these  yawning, 
blinking,  stale  men-about-town!  No — this  was  a 
case  for  Demosthenes,  not  Cleon.  And  so  he  went 
on,  and  had  his  cold  bath.  The  animated  presence 
of  ladies  in  the  gallery  aggravated  the  impassivity  of 

their  lordships.    Lord  S told  him  afterwards  that 

he  was  over  their  heads.  "They  don't  like  a  man 
to  talk  about  Amurath  and  Solyman  and  the  Tyrants 
of  Syracuse.  They  like  to  be  fairly  sure  beforehand 
what  you're  going  to  say.  Look  at  me,  you  know. 
They  know  me  by  heart,  and  are  always  glad  to  see 
me.  Within  reason  I  say  just  what  I  like.  And  so 
can  you;  but  pray  don't  think  that  you'll  draw  them 
by  strong  language.     They'll  sit  as  mum  as  fishes. 


THE  MANTLE  OF  MIRABEAU  87 

and  draw  you.  I  don't  think  the  Duke  ever  answers 
anybody  but  Grey.  It's  not  worth  his  while,  you 
understand.  He's  a  busy  man,  and  I'm  very  idle. 
But  I  hope  I  keep  the  cause  moving — I  hope  I  do." 
Bendish  left  the  House  without  further  ado,  and  kept 
to  his' own  for  some  days.  Failure  infuriated  him, 
and  he  felt  that  he  had  failed  badly. 

He  was  very  acute,  and  quite  candid  with  him- 
self. He  had  failed  because  he  had  tried  for  too 
high  a  mark.  He  had  tried  to  hft  with  him  a  dead 
weight.  He  turned  cold  to  think  that  he  had  very 
nearly  made  a  fool  of  himself  by  taking  seriously 
what  was  the  merest  routine.  His  face — he  was 
alone  at  the  time — was  white  and  wild,  his  eyes 
were  round  and  tragic  as  he  realised  the  narrow 
escape  he  had  had.  Then,  as  was  always  the  case 
with  him,  his  fancy  began  to  torment  him  into  a 
fury,  first  with  himself,  next  with  the  men  who  had 
put  him  in  this  plight.  He  disdained  his  order, 
he  was  shocked  at  their  cynicism,  he  vowed  the 
destruction  of  such  a  monstrous  display  of  sneering 
privilege.  For  the  first  time  in  his  Hfe,  it  is  prob- 
able, he  felt  \vith  the  sweating  and  dragooned  mil- 
lions whom  he  had  just  professed  himself  in  Cice- 
ronian periods  ready  to  lead. 

He  raged,  mute  and  white.  He  knew  himself 
able,  exorbitant  in  his  claim  upon  fate  and  his  gen- 
eration and  the  generation  after  it.  Yet  he  knew 
also  that  no  tribute  of  earthly  powers  could  possibly 
satisfy  him.  If  the  King  and  Princes  of  the  Blood, 
with  the  ministers  and  two  archbishops,  were  to 


88  BENDISH 

kneel  in  St.  James's  Street  and  fall  upon  their  faces 
when  he  appeared,  he  would  spurn  them  and  go 
his  way,  looking  for  more  absolute  honour.  But 
even  these  poor  silly  things  had  not  occurred.  Far 
from  it,  he  reflected  with  a  shiver  that  he  had  been 
stripped — since  in  a  case  like  his  to  withhold  was 
to  take  away — and  it  might  well  be  that  he  would 
soon  be  beating  the  bushes  of  the  world  looking  for 
a  hospitable — he  meant  flattering — pair  of  eyes. 

Flattery  enough  he  could  have  had,  from  women, 
but  in  such  an  hour  as  this  he  abhorred  their  shal- 
low enthusiasm.  They  looked  at  you,  these  pretty, 
plumed,  bare-necked  women,  with  eyes  set  wide  for 
any  chance  newcomer  more  worship-worthy  than 
yourself.  They  focussed  about  you,  not  upon  you. 
Now  the  tribute  of  a  woman,  to  be  worth  anything, 
must  be  without  stint.  If  you  are  not  the  centre 
of  her  world  you  were  better  nothing  at  all.  Ben- 
dish  would  have  none  of  them.  He  had  made  a 
bid  for  absolute  power  and  it  had  been  refused  him. 
Good.  He  would  bide  his  time,  which  no  doubt 
would  come,  in  its  time. 

He  kept  to  his  rooms,  denied  the  door  to  every 
comer,  opened  no  letters,  wrote  none,  and  lived 
chiefly  upon  soda  water,  tobacco,  and  the  works  of 
Voltaire.  For  a  week  he  was  comforted,  and  then 
nature  had  its  way  with  the  young  man.  A  vision, 
an  apprehension  rather,  for  touch  seemed  to  mingle 
with  sight  to  make  it  palpable,  stole  upon  him  in 
the  pauses  of  the  night,  and  thereafter  grew  in  in- 
tensity till  he  gave  way  to  it.     The  vision  was  of  a 


THE  MANTLE  OF  MIRABEAU  89 

tall,  swaying  and  glowing  girl  whose  ardour  was 
fanned  by  his  own  into  a  dehcately  leaping  fire. 
Again  he  dreamed  achievement  rather  than  prom- 
ise. He  saw  her  veiled  eyes,  he  saw  her  averted 
head:'  Sweet  distress  to  be  so  desired  made  her 
humble.  His  arms  were  about  her,  soon  her  lips 
were  his.  She  cast  herself  with  a  sob  upon  his 
breast,  she  confessed  him  king  and  lord.  By  heaven, 
but  such  a  tribute  from  a  virgin  heart  was  worth  all 
the  acclamation  of  the  world.  And  it  was  his  to 
pick  up  by  mere  stooping  for  it. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  was  answered  by  discreet 
Mackintosh.  He  ordered  a  horse  to  be  round  im- 
mediately, a  gfoom  in  attendance.  In  half  an  hour 
he  was  pounding  the  North  Road  in  the  gathering 
dusk  of  a  spring  day.  In  an  hour  and  a  half  he  had 
Rose  Pierson  in  his  arms,  sobbing  upon  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DISTRACTION   OFFERS 

Bendish  could  be  a  great  lover — for  he  was  at 
once  ardent  and  imaginative;  his  natural  fire  kin- 
dled his  fancy,  and  his  fancy  could  play  with  his 
fire  so  long  as  he  saw  himself  stooping  splendidly. 
His  books  of  reference  were  the  lady's  looks,  and 
most  of  the  work  must  be  hers.  The  woman  to 
keep  him  would  have  to  be  perpetually  on  all  fours, 
perpetually  needing  benefit  and  perpetually  adoring 
him  for  bestowing  it.  If  you  can  find  a  woman  so 
quadrupedahan  as  that  all  may  be  well.  But  if  you 
have  to  put  her  there  before  you  can  make  your 
splendid  beneficent  stoop,  you  must  be  careful  lest 
the  mechanism  of  the  thing  become  obvious  even 
to  yourself.  And  you  may  happen  to  strike  upon 
a  lady  who  doesn't  care  to  be  repeatedly  plumped 
into  the  mire  in  order  to  be  raised  splendidly  to 
your  level.  A  natural  groveller  is  your  only  real 
chance  of  happiness — and  there  aren't  too  many  of 
them. 

Rose  Pierson  was  a  proud  girl  by  nature,  but 
by  circumstance  had  been  forced  to  keep  her  pride 
in  her  pocket.  She  was  also  an  intelligent  girl  who 
knew  her  betters  when  she  saw  them.     Long  before 

90 


DISTRACTION  OFFERS  9 1 

Bendish  had  declared  himself  a  lord  she  had  been 
aware  of  his  lordliness,  and  it  hadn't  needed  the 
tinge  of  urbane  condescension  upon  his  deahngs  with 
her  to  make  her  feel  the  lift  to  her  feet.  She  had 
very  likely  been  flattered  into  love.  Bendish  had 
talked  to  her  very  unaffectedly  in  the  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance,  for  his  temperament,  I  say 
again,  was  ardent  and  his  tastes  naturally  good. 
He  had  talked  poetry,  he  had  read  it  to  her — and 
not  only  his  owti  by  any  means.  He  had  read  her 
Petrarch,  and  guided  her  timid  tongue  over  the 
sugary  stuff;  he  had  read  her  Tasso,  the  Pastor 
Fido;  Shakespeare,  Milton,  The  Faerie  Queen,  and 
the  "Hymn  to  Beauty."  Then  there  had  been  his 
own  things — "To  Rose,  with  a  book,"  "To  Rose, 
with  a  rose"  and  so  on:  very  pretty  indeed.  All 
this  reading  and  imagining  had  very  simply  led  to 
love-making.  It  is  a  short  step  from  talking  love 
to  acting  it.  Rose  was  flattered,  and  then  moved; 
once  moved,  she  was  immovable.  She  had  a  con- 
stant mind,  and  now  her  pride,  being  enlarged,  took 
possession  of  it.  Constancy  became  a  standing 
order  and  a  point  of  honour  too.  WTiatever  her 
noble  lover  might  do  with  her,  there  was  one  thing, 
she  vowed,  he  should  never  do,  and  that  was  kill 
her  love.  He  had  told  her  of  the  state  of  his  heart 
before  he  revealed  his  rank.  She  was  not  at  all 
blinded  by  the  new  glory,  because  she  was  prepared 
for  it.  That  dism^aycd  him  a  little;  that  cooled 
him.  He  had,  I  think,  expected  her  to  souse  down 
again  on  all  fours  into  the  mud;  but  she  had  sim- 


92  BENDISH 

ply  bowed  her  head  and  then  Hfted  it  again,  that 
she  might  show  him  faith  and  honour  in  her  eyes. 
"If  you  were  the  King,"  she  had  said,  "I  couldn't 
love  you  any  more."  He  had  clasped  her  to  his 
heart;  but  he  had  not  picked  her  up,  because  she 
wasn't  down. 

When  he  left  Myrtle  Cottage  for  the  mansions 
of  Mayfair  (with  The  Billiad  on  every  boudoir 
table,  and  a  castigated  husband  pacing  every  other 
library  carpet),  she  had  gone  tearless  about  her 
humdrum  business  and  kept  her  head  very  high. 
He  never  wrote  to  her,  and  she  couldn't  write  to 
him,  or  thought  that  she  couldn't.  As  time  went 
on  she  suffered;  and  then  came  Heniker's  kindness 
and  broke  down  her  defences.  But  she  never 
wavered,  or  lowered  the  flag;  and  when  at  last  he 
came  back  to  her  she  was  able  to  offer  herself  to 
him  breast  to  breast,  as  the  equal  which  he  had 
made  her.  "Oh,  my  lover,  my  lover,  I  knew  that 
you  would  come,"  she  had  said  in  his  ear,  cHnging 
to  him,  her  face  hidden.  By  no  means  on  all-fours, 
you  see.  Far  from  it,  she  was  high  in  the  air.  He 
had  justified  her  proud  beUefs,  and  she  credited 
him  with  a  share  of  her  own  glory.  She  made  much 
of  him;  her  eyes  and  hps  and  thrilling  tones  be- 
trayed how  much;  and  the  more  she  made  of  him 
on  these  terms  the  less  he  liked  it. 

Not  thus  does  a  hound  at  fault  pick  up  the  scent. 
This  is  the  way  to  chop  foxes.  Bendish  had  been 
moved  to  return  to  Rose  by  two  instincts:  there 
was  the  instinct  of  disgust  at  a  stale  old  planet  jog- 


DISTRACTION  OFFERS  93 

trotting  round  its  everlasting  sun,  attended  by  its 
everlasting  satellites.  This  figure  may  stand  for 
the  House  of  Lords,  perhaps,  parading  about  the 
kingdom,  with  its  futile  Greys  and  Devizes  trailing 
after  it.  Round  and  round  they  go,  so  chained  to 
the  blessed  routine  that  they  never  heed  the  dash- 
ing meteor  out  of  space  that  comes  rocketing  into 
them.  Not  at  all;  a  shake  of  the  head,  a  wag  of 
the  bhnkers,  and  on  they  go.  Let  us  slant  off  in 
a  hurry  to  that  Island  of  the  Blest,  Cythera,  and 
forget  this  hideous  mill  of  a  world.  That  was  one 
instinct — the  revolt  of  stinging  blood  against  pack- 
horseism.  The  other  was  the  imperious  need  he 
felt  to  restore  himself  to  himself,  to  recognise  his 
power  again,  to  reshape  his  ambitions,  to  get  in 
touch  once  more  with  magnanimity.  He  must  get 
back  to  mew  and  sit  there  awhile,  his  burning  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  sun  and  the  far  blue  realms  of  his 
dominion.  And  where  so  fit  a  perch  for  him  as  the 
humble  heart  of  Rose? 

All  very  well — but  Rose  was  no  longer  humble, 
but  proud  with  the  pride  he  had  taught  her,  and 
received  him  (very  nearly)  as  an  equal.  He  had 
been  almost  ludicrously  dismayed.  The  romantic 
rapture  of  his  galloping  return,  of  their  meeting 
in  the  scented  dusk,  of  her  warm-breathed  beauty, 
her  cHnging  and  her  glad  tears,  lasted  him  just 
long  enough  to  uphold  the  proper  note.  They 
burned  together  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  she 
bade  him  go  from  her.  "Come  back  to  me  when 
you  will,"  she  said.     "You  will  find  me  here.     But 


94  BENDISH 

you  must  ask  for  Aunt  Welbore,  not  for  me.  I 
shall  tell  her  that  you  have  been  here,  of  course." 

Pack-horseism  in  Cythera!  He  couldn't  have 
that,  but  clasped  her  to  his  heart.  "Love  knows 
nothing  of  aunts  and  uncles,  my  beloved.  Love 
sees  the  world  as  a  flowery  glade — with  two  persons 
in  it,  the  Lover  and  the  Loved." 

She  smiled  at  him,  gentle  as  a  mother  might  be 
gentle,  pitying  her  child.  "I  know  how  these  forms 
must  irk  you,"  she  said,  "but,  dearest,  they  keep 
me  from  the  cold.  Oh!"  and  she  clung  to  him, 
"I  shall  wait  upon  your  leisure.  I  know  that  you 
have  your  part  in  great  affairs — I  know  that  my 
lord  is  a  lord  of  the  world."  He  Hked  that.  Then 
she  told  him  that  she  had  read  of  his  speech  in  the 
House;  and  that  he  didn't  like  at  all,  knowing  well 
that  he  had  hit  the  wrong  note,  and  hit  it  too  hard. 
He  fumed  inwardly,  and  needed  no  urging  to  be 
gone.  As  he  rode  home  through  the  dark  he  told 
himself  that  that  pretty  bubble  was  pricked  and 
frittered  into  air.  He  tried  to  be  cynical  about  it; 
but  he  was  too  young  to  find  that  any  comfort. 
He  felt  lonely. 

He  was  now  alarmed  about  himself.  All  his  sup- 
ports seemed  cut  away.  Poetry,  PoUtics,  Love — 
Women,  mind,  ambition — all  gone!  The  world  was 
but  a  conglomerate  of  bubbles;  you  prick  one  and 
the  whole  filmy  mass  vanishes.  He  must  travel — 
he  must  see  peoples  and  lands.  He  would  go  East, 
where  you  get  Passion  and  Reality,  where  you  see 
Passions  as  men  walking,  without  a  stitch  to  cover 


DISTRACTION  OFFERS  95 

them — naked  and  fierce  as  they  were  born.  Among 
them  he  would  stalk,  as  a  man  among  men,  with 
them  wrestle  for  a  throw;  triumphing  there,  he 
would  pick  up  his  chosen  bride  and  lift  her  to  his 
saddle-bow.  Then  away  with  her  into  the  hills, 
into  the  silence  and  solitude  of  nature,  where  only 
the  soaring  eagle  is  co-tenant,  and  wed  her  there 
in  some  rock-bound  glade  mthin  sound  of  the  thun- 
der of  the  cataract.  Et  Venus  in  silvis.  .  .  .  !  Ele- 
mental hfe  for  the  man  who  feels  the  elements  heave 
within  him  for  utterance,  like  the  fiery  gas  in  the 
womb  of  the  volcano.  Here  he  became  himself 
again,  youth  being  quick  to  the  rebound.  Bendish 
past  the  remnant  of  the  night  in  a  fever  of  unrest, 
and  so  was  found  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  by 
his  henchman  Heniker,  come  to  report  the  progress 
of  the  Coronation  claim. 

Coronation  claims — with  eagles  above  the  sol- 
itudes! 

Bendish,  bright-eyed  and  pale,  scoffed  at  him. 

"But,  my  good  Roger,  all  this  is  damned  fool- 
ishness. 'The  Lord  Bendish  claims  to  walk  as  a 
peer  among  his  peers.  .  .  .  !'  Great  God,  man,  let 
me  tell  you  once  for  all  that  George  Bendish  claims 
to  walk  as  a  man  among  free  men.  That  claim, 
it  seems,  is  to  be  questioned!  That's  a  thing  no 
man  in  England  must  claim.  Oh,  have  done  with 
such  dreary  quackery !  You  make  me  ashamed  that 
I  stand  upright  on  two  legs — with  two  legs  beneath 
me  and  tlic  well-worn  stump  of  a  tail.  Who  bit 
that  off  for  me?    The  doctor?  the  midwife?     Pooh, 


96  BENDISH 

sir,  I  come  of  a  fighting  stock.  The  thing  went — 
rubbed  away — before  we  had  our  backs  to  the  wall 
and  held  our  own  against  kings  and  robber-barons. 
A  peer  among  his  peers.  .  .  .  !  My  good  Roger,  I 
tell  you  flatly  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about."  The  probabiUties  are  that,  at  the  moment, 
he  really  didn't. 

The  patient  Heniker  grinned,  but  said  nothing. 
Bendish  paced  the  room  with  rapid  strides,  leaping 
from  cabbage  to  cabbage  upon  the  carpet  as  if  he 
were  crossing  a  torrent  upon  the  scattered  rocks 
in  its  bed.  "I  tell  you  that  I  sicken  of  this  fenced 
island — this  kitchen-garden  within  sea-walls.  Roger, 
I'm  for  the  open,  and  invite  you  to  tread  with  me. 
We'll  cross  Spain  on  horseback — see  them  kill  bulls 
at  Madrid,  learn  to  play  the  guitar  at  Seville,  un- 
veil women  at  Granada,  and  shake  Europe  off  our 
footsoles  at  Gibraltar.  Then  for  the  gorgeous  East 
— Albania,  Athens,  Byzantium,  Bagdad,  Damascus. 
In  Syria  we  may  find  ourselves  among  our  equals. 
The  desert  should  breed  men.  I,  at  any  rate,  have 
made  up  my  mind.  I'll  be  no  longer  a  plant  in 
this  conservatory,  syringed  with  warm  water  by 
old  Devizes  and  his  men.  There's  dry  rot  in  the 
benches  and  mildew  in  the  green  stuff.  The  close 
fetid  air  makes  me  sick.  Pah !  I  tell  you  I  want  to 
breathe!" 

Heniker  looked  at  his  papers  with  some  concern. 
"It's  as  you  please,  of  course.  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  I've  given  a  deal  of  work  to  this  thing — and 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  known  earlier  that 


DISTRACTION  OFFERS  97 

you — were  thinking  no  more  about  it.  I  suppose 
it  had  better  go  through  now.  In  fact,  it  is  as 
good  as  through  the  Committee." 

Beqdish  chafed.  "If  a  man's  sincere  impulse 
towards  honesty  is  to  be  stayed  by  a  Cormnittee 
for  Privileges — !  Roger,  we  are  talking  of  different 
things.  I  am  talking  about  hfe  and  you  about — 
privileges." 

"You  forget,"  Heniker  said,  "that  I  get  my  liv- 
ing that  way.  However,  you  needn't  be  troubled 
any  more.  I  suppose  you'll  exercise  your  rights 
on  the  great  day." 

"Are  you  speaking  of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  my 
friend?"  Bendish  asked  severely. 

Heniker  met  him  with  blandness.  "The  Coro- 
nation, my  dear  Bendish,  was  in  my  mind.  But 
you  may  not  be  at  home,  it  seems — and  in  fact  I 
hardly  think  that  I  shall  be  here  either.  I  have 
to  go  abroad  almost  at  once." 

Bendish  cheered.  "Hurrah,  Roger!  We'll  go 
together.  Leave  it  all  to  me.  How  soon  can  you 
be  ready?" 

Roger  smiled.  "Syria  is  too  far,  and  I've  no 
time  for  the  ladies  of  Granada.  My  lady  of  the 
moment  lives  at  Rapallo." 

"Italy!"  cried  Bendish.  "By  God,  we'll  go  to 
Italy.  There  were  men  in  Rome  once.  But — you 
are  after  a  lady?"  He  puzzled.  "Who  the  devil's 
your  lady?" 

Roger  told  him.  "She's  only  mine  in  business 
terms.     She's  married  fast  enough  this  time.     You'll 


98  BENDISH 

know  her  name  I  don't  doubt.  She  is  Mrs.  Poore, 
and  was  once  Mrs.  Lancelot.  I'm  to  see  her  about 
her  first  husband's  will." 

Bendish  was  highly  and  immediately  interested. 
He  had  had  Mr.  Poore  in  his  mind  ever  since  his 
dinner-party  when  two  poet-reformers  had  laid  stress 
upon  the  man's  powers.  Poore  had  been  a  possible 
rival.  Poore  was  to  be  reckoned  with.  He  admit- 
ted to  himself  that  he  had  forgotten  Poore  for  the 
moment.    Now,  however,  his  mind  was  made  up. 

"  I  beheve  I'll  see  her  too — and  her  master.  They 
said  great  things  of  Poore,  you  remember?  I'd 
like  to  meet  him.  I  believe  we  might  get  on.  There 
are  things  to  be  done  with  England — even  now! 
Let  it  be  Italy  by  all  means.  I  can  go  on  to  the 
East  afterwards,  by  way  of  Venice,  unless  Poore 
and  I  strike  a  partnership  of  insurrection.  I  should 
say  that  was  much  on  the  cards.  When  Greek 
meets  Greek !  Or  steel  strikes  on  steel — hey,  Roger? 
Well,  I'm  ready.  I  could  start  in  half  an  hour — 
if  you're  of  that  mind." 

Heniker,  his  mind  flashing  about  over  his  own 
affairs,  felt  that  he'd  much  rather  have  Bendish 
with  him,  than  leave  him  in  England.  He  had 
no  notion  of  his  recent  dashing  exploit  at  Golder's 
Green,  since  he  had  not  been  there  himself,  nor 
been  able  to  see  his  lady  in  town.  He  believed 
that  all  was  well  in  that  quarter;  but  with  Bendish 
you  could  never  tell.  The  fellow  veered  like  a 
weathercock!  Any  sudden  whim  might  send  him 
dashing  down  there,  to  carry  his  sweet  Rose  by 


DISTRACTION  OFFERS  99 

storm.  He  pondered  the  proposal  for  a  moment, 
but  his  mind  was  really  made  up. 

"If  you  wish  to  join  me,  George,  I  shall  be  very 
happy  in  your  company,  I  don't  doubt,"  he  said, 
"but  you  must  understand  that  I'm  one  of  your 
pack-horses.  No  loitering  in  Spain  for  me.  I  shall 
go  by  Paris  to  Marseilles  and  then  on.  I  shall  go 
post,  since  I'm  told  that  money  is  no  difficulty." 

He  awoke  the  lord  in  the  child  of  nature. 

"Post!"  cried  Bendish  ^vith  scorn.  "By  Heaven, 
you'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  shall  take  my  car- 
riage, of  course.  Now,  my  dear  Roger,  leave  all 
this  to  me.  BeHeve  me,  I  know  the  way  to  travel. 
All  I  shall  ask  of  you,  or  your  father,  is  the  where- 
withal. See  to  it,  will  you?  that  the  bankers  be 
warmed  beforehand  into  civility.  Whither  away 
now?  Paris,  Marseilles,  Turin,  Milan,  Florence, 
Rome,  Venice?  That  will  do  for  the  present.  Just 
see  to  all  this,  there's  a  good  fellow.  And  we  start 
to-day  week.  Is  that  understood?  Good.  Now 
you  can  leave  me  to  myself,  if  you  will.  I  believe 
I  shall  go  to  bed.  Thirty-six  hours  is  a  good  day. 
Au  revoir,  my  dear  Roger." 

He  did  not  go  to  bed,  however.  He  was  much 
too  happy.  Action  was  what  he  needed.  Entirely 
recovered,  he  saUied  forth  to  dine,  to  talk  high, 
to  play  deep,  to  revel.  Great  with  idea,  there  was 
nothing  he  could  not  do,  and  do  supremely  well. 
At  two  in  the  morning,  returned  from  Crockford's, 
he  laid  the  scheme  of  a  great  travel  poem  in  six 
books,  and  found  himself  so  fertile  that  much  of 


lOO  BENDISH 

it  was  on  paper  before  he  was  sure  of  his  route. 
A  motive  was  a-wanting.     Could  that  be  Rose? 

Or  the  siren  Lady  0 ?      Or  perhaps  Lady  Ann, 

too  chaste  for  his  hero?  The  sketch  here  was  hazy. 
Quite  possibly  a  motive  would  declare  itself  en 
route.  Meantime  Nature  and  the  works  of  Man 
were  to  be  dressed  in  a  fine  melancholy.  He  was 
certified  of  that  by  his  lively  Muse  before  he  went 
to  bed  that  morning — which  he  did  nearly  at  the 
hour  when  Rose  at  her  window  looked  out  to  greet 
the  sun  and  pray  for  her  lover. 


V 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOW  NOT  TO   LEAVE  A  MISTRESS 

The  fortnight — for  it  took  the  full  of  that — be- 
tween decision  and  departure  was  full  of  comfort 
to  Lord  Bendish,  who  could  only  gauge  his  own 
happiness  by  the  unhappiness  of  his  friends.  He 
flew  now  from  house  to  house  taking  intense  fare- 
wells. Every  house  which  he  left  contained  at  least 
one  tear-dimmed  lady.  The  burden  of  his  exile — 
for  he  put  it  at  that — was  felt  to  be  her  burden,  all 
the  more  grievous  in  that  he  invariably  spoke  more 
in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  "Fret  not  for  me,"  said 
Bendish — or  he  impHed  it;  "I  do  but  fulfil  my  des- 
tiny— that  of  a  man  born  a  rebel.  The  powers  of 
this  world  triumph  for  a  time.  Every  self-interest 
is  concerned  to  hound  me  out.  The  voice  of  truth 
must  be  smothered.  But  you  and  I  know  that  we 
dare  not  palter  with  the  truth.  You  would  not  have 
me  otherwise — and  I,  my  dear  one,  could  not  love 
you  so  much  did  I  think  that  you  would  see  me 
deny  truth  for  the  sake  of  our  temporal  bliss.  I  go, 
I  go,  carrying  in  my  heart  enshrined  the  memory 
of  one  noble  woman.  To  you  I  leave,  as  consecra- 
tion of  your  years  of  solitude,  the  vows  of  an  in- 
flexibly honest  man — a  small,  clear  flame  for  the 


102  BENDISH 

altar  of  your  heart.  Tend  it  anxiously  for  my  sake 
— and  be  sure  of  my  service  of  our  love.  I  am 
henceforth  the  high  priest  of  Memory.  Adieu! 
adieu!" 

There  were  tears,  kisses;  generally  a  lock  of  hair 
was  his.  He  received  it  with  sad  satisfaction,  and 
bestowed  it  safely,  after  (at  least)  a  twelve  hours' 
carriage  upon  his  person,  into  a  drawer  in  his  cabinet. 
There  it  joined  a  pretty  numerous  harem. 

With  men  he  took  another  line  of  discourse.  This 
accursed  country  was  still  at  the  bottom  of  it,  but 
on  a  more  physical  side.  As  he  put  it,  its  fogs 
intercepted  your  breath,  its  government  your  let- 
ters, its  husbands  your  flirtations.  You  couldn't 
eat  its  dinners,  kiss  its  wives,  write  its  poems,  get 
its  votes.  A  handful  of  peers  and  fox-hunters  ruled 
its  counsels,  a  few  raddled  old  women  set  its  fashions, 
and  a  couple  of  magazines  dictated  its  taste.  Be 
damned  to  oligarchy,  he  was  for  individuality.  A 
man  should  be  worth  the  length  of  his  arm,  or  his 
head;  Bendish  didn't  care  which  it  was — he  would 
accept  battle  with  anybody,  and  leave  the  choice  of 
weapons  to  his  antagonist.  Here  was  he,  for  instance, 
in  roaring  youth,  who  had  tried  every  diversion 
which  the  world  had  to  offer  to  a  man  of  reason- 
able parts:  poHtics,  literature,  action,  love;  poetry, 
rhetoric,  battle,  adultery — take  it  how  you  will. 
They  wouldn't  have  him,  not  because  they  didn't 
like  him  (for  they  did),  but  because  they  couldn't 
afford  to  disturb  existing  order.  Let  sleeping  dogs 
lie,  said  they.     Once  you  let  in  ideas,  who  knows 


HE  RIDES  AWAY  103 

where  they  will  go?  What  becomes  of  the  patrid 
potestas  ?  What's  the  end  of  Privilege  ?  Where's 
the  King,  Lords,  and  Commons?  Where  are  the 
Forms  of  the  House;  where's  the  Sublime  and  the 
Beautiful?  The  Muses,  pray!  Here's  Lord  Ben- 
dish  with  a  pair  of  scissors  to  cut  their  petticoats. 
Good  God,  if  he  ain't  careful  you  may  see  their  legs! 
These  ladies,  like  the  Queen  of  Spain,  are  under- 
stood to  have  none.  Or  take  pohtics,  he'll  trouble 
you.  A  man  who,  with  all  his  faults,  sees  things 
for  what  they  are,  goes  down  to  the  House  of  Lords 
for  the  first  time  in  his  hfe.  What  does  he  find? 
His  Majesty's  Ministers  and  his  Majesty's  ex-Min- 
isters  debating  the  State  of  the  Nation.  Very  well; 
most  proper  subject  of  debate.  He  cuts  in  and  de- 
scribes that — as  he  sees  it.  With  what  result? 
Discomfort,  disrelish,  dismay,  disgust  on  every  side. 
What!  this  upstart  (whose  forefathers,  let  him  say, 
in  parenthesis,  upstarted  with  the  Conqueror)  not 
only  denies  that  all  is  well,  but  tells  us  that  nothing 
can  be  well  so  long  as  we  sit  where  we  are!  Assures 
us  that  in  these  days  it  won't  do  for  a  score  of  men 
to  keep  a  score  million  marking  time !  Bids  us  count 
men,  not  acres,  weigh  brains  and  not  breeches' 
pockets!  Back  to  school  with  him;  he's  not  had 
enough  of  the  birch.  Don't  answer  the  fellow;  pre- 
tend he  isn't  there.  H'm,  h'm — where  are  we! 
Ah,  to  be  sure.  "His  Majesty's  Ministers,  secure 
in  the  confidence  of  a  beloved,  because  temperate, 
monarch.  .  .  ."  Well,  personally,  he,  Bendish,  felt 
that  it  was  a  case  of  one  thing  or  another  for  him. 


I04  BENDISH 

One  stifled  in  England.  Either  you  must  open  the 
windows,  or  you  must  go  outdoors.  England  de- 
clined the  first;  remained  the  second.  This  was 
how  he  put  it,  with  great  vivacity.  It  was  hard  to 
see  how  he  could  have  a  better  fortnight  in  any  land 
or  under  any  conditions  of  life. 

His  humble,  but  very  necessary  friend  Heniker 
spent  his  fortnight  differently.  He  had  to  pacify 
the  creditors,  the  mother,  and  one  of  the  victims 
of  this  brilliant  young  man.  None  of  these  were 
easy  matters,  and  one  of  them  touched  him  nearly. 
We  may  leave  out  of  account  the  Jews,  the  dis- 
counters, the  tailors,  carriage-builders,  jewellers, 
and  dependents  of  the  Bendish  name;  we  may 
touch  lightly  upon  the  smouldering  gloom  and  omi- 
nous seismics  of  Mrs.  Bendish,  and  even  upon  her 
ultimate  eruption  in  storm — a  storm  so  shattering 
that  Heniker  felt  himself  a  nameless  outcast  for 
four-and-twenty  hours  after  it  and  complained  of 
pains  in  the  head.  Poor  Mrs.  Bendish;  her  rage 
knew  no  bounds  because  every  other  faculty  of  hers 
was  in  rigid  confinement.  She  could  do  nothing. 
She  had  no  money,  nor  authority  to  raise  any.  She 
never  saw  her  son,  and  never  had  her  letters  an- 
swered. She  had  the  power  of  dying,  and  before 
very  long  exercised  it;  meantime  she  sheathed  her 
claws  in  Heniker' s  respectable  flesh  and  felt  a  mo- 
mentary relief.  It  is  his  other  task  which  concerns 
me.  He  had  to  learn  from  the  girl  of  his  heart  that 
Bendish  had  been  with  her  again;  to  see  her  own 
heart  bleeding   and   to   staunch   the  flow.    These 


HE  RIDES  AWAY  105 

things  he  suffered  and  did  with  an  honesty  which 
is  much  to  his  credit. 

The  occasion  was  that  of  the  second  confession 
of  his  feeHngs  to  Rose,  which  he  made  because  he 
was  lfa\'ing  her  for  two  months  certain.  This  time 
he  was  fortified  by  Mrs.  Welbore's  good  opinions 
and  offices.  This  worthy  woman  was  now  clearly 
on  his  side,  had  invited  him  to  her  house  and  point- 
edly left  him  alone  with  her  niece.  The  tall  young 
girl  stood  dreaming  by  the  window,  dreaming,  you 
might  say,  defiantly,  for  she  knew  very  well  what 
she  had  to  face.  So  she  remained  while  Roger 
spoke  to  her  of  his  departure  and  of  his  feelings  at 
lea\'ing  her.  She  listened,  though  she  continued  to 
gaze  and  had  dreams  in  her  eyes.  She  smiled  gen- 
tly, but  she  shook  her  head  in  answer  to  his  prayer 
for  hope.  "I  can  only  say  what  I  said  before. 
You  are  more  than  kind.  It  is  true  that  my  thoughts 
will  go  with  you." 

"Ah,"  said  the  young  man  ruefully,  "but  I'm 
afraid  they  will  be  for  my  companion." 

She  did  not  deny  it.  "I  shall  never  think  of  you 
without  kindness,"  she  said.  "But  you  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me." 

He  nodded  three  or  four  times.  "I  have  never 
liked  to  speak  to  you  of — of  Lord  Bendish.  I  felt 
a  delicacy.  But — forgive  me — I  didn't  think  that 
you  could  have  seen  much  of  him  lately." 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  at  gaze.  "He  came  to 
see  me  the  other  day.  He  asked  me,  did  I  care  for 
him  still?    He  need  not.     He  was  answered  before 


io6  BENDISH 

he  had  finished.  How  can  I  help  myself?  He 
taught  me  to  care."  Her  voice  trailed.  She  seemed 
to  have  no  lifting  power. 

Heniker  cursed  Bendish  in  his  heart.  But  he 
could  not  deny  help  to  the  woman  he  loved.  "You 
are  steadfast,  you  have  a  noble  heart.  That  is 
your  honour,  and  your  very  grief  is  your  reward — " 

But  she  wouldn't  have  that.  "No,  no,"  she  said, 
"it  is  not  so.     But  I  can't  help  myself." 

He  assented  sadly.  "He  has  a  winning  way  with 
him.  I  can  see  how  he  would  affect  you.  But — 
I  think  you  ought  to  know — I  feel  bound  to  warn 
you — he  is  very  changeable.  He  forgets,  you  see. 
He  so  delights  in  using  his  powers.  He  has  so  many 
powers,  so  much  charm,  so  much  spirit;  he  sees  so 
many  people " 

She  held  up  her  head.  "I  understand  you.  It 
is  only  to  say  that  he  is  a  person  of  consequence — 
by  birth,  by  ability — and  that  I  am  a  nobody " 

He  stopped  her.  "I  can't  hear  you  say  that. 
You  are  all  the  world  to  me.  Your  beauty  and 
nobiUty  of  soul — no  rank,  no  attainments  can  equal 
that.  Any  honest  man  in  the  world  must  be  on 
his  knees  to  you." 

She  rewarded  him  with  a  look  where  innocent 
vanity  and  compassion  were  tenderly  mixed;  but 
then  she  resumed  her  outward  searching  of  the  day. 
"I  value  your  good  opinion  of  me,  and  want  to 
deserve  it.  You  would  think  less  of  me  if  I  was 
fickle  because  he  is.  You  don't  care  for  me  less 
because  I  can't  give  you  what  you  ask.     I  must 


HE  RIDES  AWAY  107 

follow  my  heart,  with  my  conscience.  It  may  lead 
me  to  unhappiness — but  at  least  I  shan't  have 
to  reproach  himself.  Nor,"  she  said  with  a  full- 
orbed  flash  upon  him,  "nor  will  you  reproach  me." 

Hei  took  a  step  forward,  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed 
it.  ^'Miss  Pierson,  I  could  never  reproach  you.  I 
love  you  with  all  my  soul." 

He  pleased  her;  even  he  saw  that.  Certainly 
she  hked  to  be  loved.  The  knowledge  of  his  state 
of  mind,  and  of  his  knowledge  of  her  own,  put  her 
at  her  ease  with  him.  It  would  be  too  much  to 
say  that  she  patronised  him,  for  she  was  most 
gentle;  but  she  had  an  almost  matronly  air.  She 
would  be  his  sister  if  he  pleased,  but  quite  clearly 
his  elder  sister.  She  was  made  older  than  he  by 
her  sufferings  past  and  to  come.  So  much  he  was 
obliged  to  see. 

Meantime — chiefly  desiring  just  now  to  distract 
her — he  told  her  as  much  as  he  felt  at  Hberty  to 
tell  of  his  mission.  It  was  common  knowledge, 
but  not  to  her.  His  account  of  Mrs.  Poore  and 
her  poet  interested  her  while  she  was  shocked  by 
some  of  the  details.  She  applauded  them  for  re- 
fusing Mr.  Lancelot's  money,  and  hoped  that  they 
would  hold  out  against  Roger's  pleading.  "You 
know  very  well  that  you  would  not  take  such  money 
yourself,"  she  said. 

He  was  not  sure.  "If,  as  I  understand  was  the 
case,"  he  urged,  "Poore  convinced  Mr.  Lancelot 
that  it  was  he  himself  who  had  wronged  the  lady 
— wronged  her  himself  first,  and  wronged  h^r  again 


io8  BENDISH 

by  putting  her  wrong  with  the  world,  I  think  it 
would  be  generous  in  the  conqueror  to  accept  rep- 
aration. What  else  could  the  poor  man  do  but 
set  her  free?  One  more  thing.  He  could  enable 
her  to  live  with  decent  comfort.  Well,  why  should 
he  not  have  that  gratification?" 

Rose  was  not  convinced.  "What  does  money 
mean  to  her?  She  has  the  man  of  her  heart.  Noth- 
ing in  the  world  matters  besides  that.  But — "  She 
thought,  frowning  over  the  position.  "She  ought 
to  have  kept  faith.     I  feel  so  sure  about  that." 

"I  am  certain  that  you  do,"  Roger  said.  "But 
nobody  is  like  you.  You  can't  expect  me  to  think 
so." 

At  this  moment  of  quiet  intimacy  both  of  them 
were  startled  by  the  sound  of  wheels.  A  thunder 
at  the  knocker  confirmed  their  belief.  In  another 
moment  Bendish  burst  into  the  room,  went  quickly 
to  Rose  and  took  her  hand.  He  kissed  it  gallantly, 
then  held  it.  "This  is  my  farewell,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "We  go  abroad  in  two  days'  time."  She 
looked  at  him  without  a  word.  Then  he  saw 
Heniker. 

"Ha,  Roger — you  here?  You  will  confirm  me. 
I  suppose  there's  nothing  to  prevent  us.  I  should 
blow  my  brains  out  if  I  had  another  twelve  hours 
of  this  doghole  of  a  country.  Forty-eight  hours  is 
my  absolute  limit  of  endurance.  Think  of  it,  Rose! 
My  mother  proposes  to  come  to  town.  That  were 
the  last  touch.  I  have  written  positively  forbid- 
ding it.     One  must  defend  oneself.     Roger,  I  must 


HE  RIDES  AWAY  109 

say,  you  are  very  remiss.  Why  didn't  you  tell  her 
that  I  had  gone?" 

Roger,  anxious  himself  to  be  out  of  this,  grinned. 
"She  won't  come,  George.  She's  not  well  enough." 
He  turned  to  Rose.  "I'll  bid  you  good-bye,  Miss 
Pierson.     And  you  shall  wish  me  a  good  voyage." 

Rose,  blushing,  disengaged  her  hand  from  her 
lover's  and  held  it  out  to  Heniker.  "I  wish  you 
every  good  thing,"  she  said,  "you  may  be  sure. 
Must  you  really  go?" 

One  would  hardly  have  credited  Bendish  with 
such  obtuseness — to  call  it  no  worse — if  one  had 
not  understood  how  entirely  he  was  held  by  one 
idea  at  a  time.  The  readiness  of  Heniker  to  leave 
the  field  to  him  actually  annoyed  him.  He  fidgeted 
during  the  little  colloquy,  and  finally  answered  Rose 
himself.  "Absurd!  There  can  be  no  earthly  rea- 
son. Give  me  ten  minutes,  give  me  five  minutes, 
and  I'll  drive  you  back  to  town.  I've  a  hundred 
things  to  say  to  you.  Do  you  know  that  Pringle 
hasn't  sent  those  guns  yet?  If  he  don't  look  out, 
the  first  use  I  make  of  one  of  'em  will  be  to  blow  out 
his  brains.  I'll  get  you  to  see  him  about  it  first 
thing  in  the  morning." 

Roger  by  the  door  said  that  he  had  booked  his 
seat  in  the  St.  Albans  coach,  and  was  for  making 
his  escape.  He  was  hot  with  rage  on  Rose's  ac- 
count; but  Bendish  was  incredible. 

"I  daresay  you  have,  my  dear  fellow,  but  I  happen 
to  wish  to  speak  to  you;  so  you  must  oblige  me." 

Roger  went  out  without  a  word.     He  knew  that 


no  BENDISH 

he  must  wait  for  the  fellow,  being  his  hireling. 
*'G — d  d— n  him,  oh,  G — d  d— n  him!"  He  stood 
tense  with  rage,  tapping  his  foot  on  the  doorstep. 

Meantime  Bendish  held  Rose  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her.  Her  lips  were  cold,  her  eyes  had  no 
tears.  "Farewell,  my  love,"  he  said.  "Wish  me 
happy — " 

She  nodded  her  head,  looking  away  from  him. 

"Wish  me  happy — and  love  me  well.  Too  few 
do  that."  She  couldn't  speak  to  him.  He  held 
her  closely,  roused  to  stir  her  feelings — but  soon 
gave  over,  conscious  of  failure,  and  sickened  at  it. 
It  would  have  needed  real  fire  in  him  to  have  moved 
her,  and  just  now  he  had  none  whatever.  "You'll 
not  forget  me.  Rose?"  he  said  rather  faintly. 

She  said  very  quietly,  "There  is  no  chance  of 
it,"  and  then,  as  he  looked  at  her,  trying  the  power 
of  his  eyes  upon  her,  she  shivered  and  withdrew 
from  his  arm.  "Please  to  go  now,"  she  said.  "I 
beg  you  to  go.     You  are  distressing  me." 

That  satisfied  his  self-esteem.  "My  dear,  I  obey 
you,"  he  said.  So  they  parted.  He  clattered  down- 
stairs and  bustled  Heniker  into  his  phaeton.  That 
miserable  young  man  kept  his  eyes  astrain  towards 
the  upper  window,  but  without  reward.  Rose  did 
not  show  herself.  As  far  as  Bendish  was  concerned, 
the  place  might  have  been  an  inn  and  she  a  cham- 
bermaid, the  toy  of  a  minute  to  spare. 

Yet  on  the  road  to  London  he  was  in  a  mood 
of  black  despondency.     He  showed  the  butt  of  a 


HE  RIDES  AWAY  III 

pistol  ^shining  in  the  mouth  of  a  pocket.  "There's 
my  truest  friend,"  he  said.  "I  tell  you  that,  Roger, 
having  experienced  every  shift  of  fortune  this  world 
can  offer.  Wine,  women,  cards,  dice;  ambition, 
art,  .thought.  Their  Hmitations,  or  my  o\vn,  make 
them  worthless.  There  remains  travel — to  ex- 
change one  set  of  fools  for  another.  I  tell  you, 
however,  that  I  feel  like  a  transported  convict.  ..." 
He  gloomed  for  a  time,  then  eyed  the  pistol  again. 
"My  truest  friend!     Good  God — and  we  live  on!" 

Presently  he  referred  to  Rose,  and  had  poor 
Heniker's  teeth  on  edge.  "You'll  hardly  believe 
me,  Roger,  but  I've  left  her  dry-eyed — the  only 
being  in  this  world  for  whom  I  care  a  rap.  But 
the  greater  fool  I,  you'll  say,  for  giving  my  heart 
into  the  charge  of  a  woman.  Women!  You'll 
hardly  credit  it,  I  daresay,  but  I've  had  them  weep- 
ing about  me  every  day  for  a  week.  I  have  ringlets 
enough  for  a  Lord  Chancellor's  wig,  and  don't 
want  'em;  and  she — Svishes  me  well!'  Good  God, 
Roger,  isn't  it  a  desperate  business  when  a  man  is 
ready  to  die  for  a  cold-blooded  mermaid  of  the  sort? 
I  swear  that  she's  got  a  fish's  tail.  A  clear  ichor — 
amber-colour — flows  in  her  veins.  She  asks  me  to 
leave  her — says  I  distress  her!  She  wishes  me  well! 
I  shall  get  drunk  to-night  and  go  to  Crockford's 
and  drop  perhaps  a  cool  thousand.  So  she  shall 
have  her  wish.     Bah!     And  we  live  on!" 

If  Bendish  lived  on,  it  was  by  no  desire  of  his 
family  adviser's.  Heniker,  too,  eyed  the  silver  heel 
of  the  pistol-butt  shining  from  the  pocket  of  the  cab. 


CHAPTER  X 

TO  RAPALLO 

The  Duke's  last  words  to  Heniker  were,  ''Get 
her  to  come  home.  Tell  her  that  I'm  old  and  lonely 
and  at  a  raw  edge.  I  have  the  acquaintance  of 
all  the  world  and  not  a  friend  in  it.  They  hate  me 
in  the  country,  chiefly  because  I  stick  to  business 
and  don't  deal  in  rhetoric.  Don't  say  that  I  told 
you  so,  I  can't  afford  to  beg  and  be  refused — 
that's  my  little  weakness.  She  can't  afford  to  grant 
it  either:  that  would  put  her  wrong  with  Poore, 
and  I  won't  have  that.  Let  it  come  from  you. 
And  of  course  she  ought  to  have  the  money — and 
of  course  she  won't."  He  had  added  as  an  after- 
thought, "So  you  take  Lord  Bendish?  Ah!  I  shall 
like  to  know  her  opinion  of  that  coxcomb.  He's 
been  fluttering  the  dove-cotes,  I  understand."  Then 
he  had  given  his  messenger  two  fingers  and  turned 
to  his  affairs. 

Upon  that  Roger  had  set  out,  in  Bendish's  travel- 
ling carriage,  with  Bendish  himself,  statue-faced  and 
hag-ridden,  in  the  mood  of  the  moment,  with  three 
servants,  two  large  dogs,  and  an  eagle  chained  by 
the  leg — but  this  last  was  left  behind  at  Dover  be- 
cause the  mood  which  demanded  it  had  by  that 


TO  RAPALLO  115 

time  evaporated.  Nothing  disgusted  Bendish  so 
deeply  as  the  sight  of  an  old  love.  When  that  hap- 
pened to  be  an  eagle  it  didn't  matter;  but  if  it  was 
a  woman,  as  mostly  it  was,  she  suffered,  so  that  he 
should  not. 

He  remained  in  his  marble  gloom,  speaking  hardly 
a  word,  for  two  days.  In  Paris,  however,  his  spirits 
rose,  and  he  insisted  upon  a  week's  sight-seeing. 
He  had  no  acquaintance  in  that  city,  and  did  not 
choose  to  inscribe  his  name  at  the  Embassy,  being 
in  a  mood  of  war  with  municipahties  and  powers; 
but  he  gave  Heniker  orders  to  see  that  his  arrival 
was  properly  chronicled  in  Galignani.  This  brought 
a  heterogeneous  assembly  into  his  anteroom  and 
gratified  him  a  good  deal;  he  took  on  a  literary  mood, 
spent  his  days  in  gardens  and  his  nights  with  poets 
and  their  loves.  Heniker's  assurance  that  he  must 
go  on,  and  should  go  alone,  moved  him.  Bendish 
could  stand  anything  but  his  own  company  in  these 
early  days. 

So  they  travelled  swiftly  through  central  and 
into  southern  France,  entered  Savoy,  and  reached 
Rapallo,  a  little  serried  town,  hanging  Hke  stone- 
crop  to  the  rocks  about  a  river.  There  they  took 
up  their  quarters  in  the  pian''  nohile  of  a  palace; 
horses  were  provided  for  his  lordship's  exercise,  and 
Heniker  sent  on  his  credentials  to  the  Villa  Faesu- 
lana,  where  the  poet  Poore  and  his  stolen  bride 
were  in  lodging.  Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day 
fixed  in  reply  he  walked  up  the  steep  path  and  pen- 
etrated the  hedge  of  myrtle  and  dusty  cypress  which 


114  BENDISH 

hid  the  lower  floors  of  a  square,  yellow,  broad- 
eaved  house  from  the  few  peasants  and  goat-herds 
who  might  pass  it.  The  garden  within  was  spacious 
and  set  out  with  order.  A  long  flagged  path  led 
up  between  lemon  trees  in  square  tubs  to  the  open 
doors  of  the  house.  A  flight  of  steps  midway  took 
the  ascent;  the  house  stood  on  a  terrace;  gera- 
niums and  roses  rioted  over  the  stone  balustrade. 
The  place  seemed  empty,  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen. 
It  was  so  quiet  there  that  you  could  hear  the  flack- 
ing of  a  moth's  wings  in  the  cool  darkness  of  the  hall. 
Heniker  pulled  at  the  beU,  and  heard  it  clang  in  the 
distance. 

A  gray-haired  peasant  woman  with  careful  pa- 
tient face  presently  appeared.  Heniker,  being  with- 
out Itahan,  smiled  and  mentioned  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Poore.  She  identified  and  nodded  at  it.  "Si,  si, 
si,"  she  said  in  singsong,  and  added  that  the  gentle- 
man was  expected,  and  that  he  would  find  the  sign- 
ori  upstairs.  "Studiano!"  she  said,  and  peered  at 
him  to  see  how  he  took  it.  "Studiano  i  libri — 
grandi  cosi — "  and  she  spread  her  arms  out  like  a 
cross.  All  this  was  lost  upon  our  friend,  as  she 
presently  saw;  so  she  shrugged  him  off  with  mut- 
tered comments  on  the  follies  of  lovers,  signed  to 
him  to  enter,  folded  up  her  bleached  old  hands  in 
her  apron,  and  shuffled  up  the  broad  stair,  he  fol- 
lowing. 

A  long  tiled  corridor  was  at  the  head  of  the  stair. 
It  stretched  the  whole  depth  of  the  house  to  a 
loggia  at  the  back  of  it.     Standing  here,  in  response 


TO  RAPALLO  115 

to  the  grinning  invitation  of  his  old  guide,  who 
jerked  her  head  and  hand  towards  the  far-off  open- 
ing and  said  in  a  deHghted  whisper,  "Vedi — i  Sign- 
ori,"  Heniker  looked,  and  saw  a  pretty  sight.  In 
the  Jevel  light  of  that  evening  hour  two  studious 
figures  sat  close  together  at  a  long  table,  a  broad- 
shouldered  man  with  his  head  thrown  up,  and  a 
sHm  and  slender  woman.  One  of  his  arms  rested 
the  elbow  on  the  table  and  the  hand  held  open  the 
page  of  a  huge  foHo  from  which  he  was  reading; 
the  other  arm  was  about  his  fellow-student.  Her 
head  touched  his  shoulder,  her  hand,  lax  at  her 
side,  played  with  a  fan.  Both  were  absorbed  in  the 
open  book,  and  a  sound  of  chanting,  now  high,  now 
low,  now  fierce,  now  trailing,  came  from  the  man. 
The  delighted  old  serva  exhibited  them  like  a  peep- 
show.  "Sempre  lo  stesso  .  .  .  scrivono  la  mat- 
tina,  leggono  la  sera.  Eh,  che  .  .  .  !"  Then  she 
beckoned  him  forward  the  length  of  the  long  pas- 
sage, and  finally  announced  him  as  "quel'  Signore 
a  servirgli."  The  interrupted  students  sprang  apart; 
both  rose,  and  the  man,  covering  the  woman,  faced 
Heniker.  So  might  Adam  and  Eve  have  behaved, 
surprised  in  Eden  by  a  son  of  God.  Here  was  a 
tall,  high-coloured,  shock-headed  young  man  with 
blue  eyes  and  something  of  a  scowl.  He  stood 
frowning  his  enquiries,  without  any  words  ready. 
From  behind  him  there  then  appeared  the  slight 
form  of  his  fellow-student,  a  shm,  grave,  and  round- 
faced  woman,  hued  like  a  morning  rose,  with  very 
clear  and  direct  gray  eyes,  as  round,  as  open,  and  as 


ii6  BENDISH 

gray  as  Athena's  own.  Her  manner  was  at  once 
sedate  and  direct,  as  if  she  knew  in  a  flash  what  was 
expected  of  her,  and  what  she  therefore  must  do, 
and  do  at  once.  It  was  she  who,  bowing  formally, 
came  to  greet  him  with  her  hand.  "I  am  Mrs. 
Poore,"  she  said  in  clear  tones;  "and  you  must  be 
Mr.  Heniker.  This  is  my  husband."  The  tall 
young  man  bowed,  but  did  not  offer  his  hand. 

Was  this  the  face,  this  the  lady,  who  had  fled 
from  duke's  house  and  husband's  bed,  who  had 
braved  her  world,  and  all  Christian  worlds,  and 
fallen  into  the  arms  of  love  and  poverty?  Heniker 
thenceforth  and  for  ever  banished  all  the  usual  con- 
notations of  elopement  and  divorce  from  his  reason- 
ings of  Mrs.  Lancelot,  as  she  had  been.  Here  was 
no  naughty  lady.  No  unholy  passion  could  contend 
w^ith  the  pale  fire  upon  those  cheeks,  no  scandal 
sully  eyes  so  bravely  clear.  To  think  of  scandal 
and  her,  so  possessed  by  limpid  purpose,  was  ab- 
surd; but  he  judged  her  capable  of  enthusiasm,  as 
burning  keenly  in  a  guarded  shrine,  and  forthwith 
declared  himself  her  knight.  It  does  him  much 
credit  that  he  was  able  to  discover  the  inner,  spirit- 
ual beauty  which  made  her  bodily  presence  so  fair 
a  tenement  of  it,  as  if  her  form  had  yielded  to  mould- 
ing from  within,  and  her  colour  of  delicate  fire  was 
the  shining  through  of  her  flame-hke  spirit,  as  if  her 
flesh  were  of  alabaster  translucency.  Report  at 
home  spake  the  Duke  of  Devizes  as  a  gross  and 
hardy  lover;  but  if  he  loved  this  lady,  Heniker 
thought,  it  must  have  been  a  matter  of  the  head 


TO  RAPALLO  117 

informing  the  heart.  He  remembered  now  how  the 
stoic  old  statesman  had  suffered  a  mellowing  of  the 
voice  when  he  spoke  of  her. 

Like  all  people  who  live  engrossed  in  each  other 
and  their  own  affairs  the  Poores  had  little  small 
talk,  nothing  to  round  off  the  edges  of  the  business 
upon  which  Heniker  had  come.  Poore  himself  had 
absolutely  none.  Heniker  saw  him  look  longingly 
at  his  enormous  book  more  than  once.  Presently 
he  turned  about  and  sat  on  the  parapet  of  the  loggia 
with  folded  arms,  looking  down  into  the  deepening 
gloom  of  the  cypresses  or  up  to  the  black  mountains, 
over  which,  in  a  green  sky,  trembled  the  evening 
star.  His  wife  spoke  shyly  of  the  journey,  and  then 
Roger  took  heart  and  commented  upon  her  garden. 
She  was  pleased,  and  her  eyes  shone  as  she  told  him 
that  they  worked  at  it  themselves.  "Every  morn- 
ing from  five  to  eight  we  work  there,"  she  said. 
"Then  the  sun  comes  over  the  hill  and  we  have  to 
go  in." 

Heniker  laughed.  "You  put  me  to  shame,  and 
as  for  my  fellow-traveller,  I  don't  know  what  you 
will  think  of  him.  Your  hour  of  leaving  off  work  is 
usually  his  for  going  to  bed." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "What  does  he  do 
all  night?"  was  her  enquiry — rash  in  any  one  but 
she,  who  never  thought  evil  of  anybody. 

"It  is  his  time  for  reading  or  writing,"  Heniker 
said.  "Fitfully,  he's  a  great  reader,  and  still  more 
rarely  a  writer.     He  hopes  to  pay  you  his  respects 


Ii8  BENDISH 

under  favour  of  a  letter  from  friends  of  yours.  Mr. 
Moore  is  one  of  them." 

She  flushed  at  a  name  which  recalled  London 
to  her,  but  Poore  caught  the  sound  of  it,  turned, 
and  looked  straightly  at  the  speaker.  His  eyes  had 
a  piercing  power,  as  if  they  would  read  the  mind. 
"Tom  Moore?  Do  you  know  Tom  Moore?  He 
used  to  love  me  once." 

"He  does  still,"  Heniker  said,  "but  I  wasn't 
speaking  of  my  own  acquaintance  with  him,  which 
is  almost  none.  It  is  my  friend  Lord  Bendish  who 
knows  him,  and  has  travelled  out  with  me  with  a 
letter  of  Mr.  Moore's  in  his  pocket-book." 

The  poet  considered  this  news.  He  frowned  over 
the  name;  then  his  brows  cleared.  "I  read  Lord 
Bendish's  poem," — he  turned  to  his  wife,  his  voice 
noticeably  gentle, — "Do  you  remember,  Gina,  I 
read  it  to  you?" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  her  eyes.  He  went  on. 
"I  thought  it  excellent.  I  envied  him  his  good 
temper.  He  laughed  at  things  which  I  should  break 
my  teeth  in.  Laughter's  a  great  power,  if  you  can 
use  it  on  yourself  too.  I  should  like  to  meet  Lord 
Bendish.     How  old  is  he?" 

Heniker  said,  two-and-twenty.  Poore  took  that 
quite  simply.  It  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  course 
that  a  man  should  be  temperate,  witty,  a  dextrous 
rhymester,  eloquent  and  omniscient  at  two-and- 
twenty.  He  did  not  believe  in  miracles.  That 
which  was,  was  natural,  that  which  was  natural 
was  reasonable.     He  repeated,  "I  shall  like  to  see 


TO  RAPALLO  119 

him,"  and  then  turned  to  his  wife,  touching  her 
shoulder  for  a  moment.  ''I  know  that  you  have 
to  talk  with  Mr.  Heniker.     I'll  leave  you  then." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face.  Heniker  saw  the 
encounter  of  their  eyes.  ''Here  at  least  is  a  wedded 
pair,"  he  thought. 

"Do  you  want  to  go?  would  you  rather?"  He 
smiled,  nodding  his  head,  then  looked  at  Heniker 
as  he  laughed  his  "Much  rather!"  She  accepted 
it.  He  touched  her  shoulder  again,  shook  hands 
with  Heniker,  and  went  into  the  house.  Mrs. 
Poore  sat  looking  at  the  deepening  mountains. 
There  was  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  during  which 
the  dusk  crept  about  them. 

Then  she  asked  him  quietly  for  news  of  the  Duke, 
and  Heniker,  encouraged  by  her  simphcity  and 
directness,  replied. 

"He  sent  for  me,  you  know,"  he  said,  "on  the 
recommendation  of  his  own  legal  adviser,  and  gave 
me  his  confidence  so  far  as  it  was  necessary  I  should 
have  it.  He  thought,  and  I  agree  with  him,  that 
I  should  see  you  in  the  matter  of  the  will,  and  that 
Mr.  Poore's  decision  should  be  made  after  discus- 
sion with  yourself.  You  have  been  informed,  I 
understand,  of  its  provisions.  I  have  the  papers 
here,  however,  and  will  leave  them  with  you  for 
your  consideration."  There  he  stopped,  not  be- 
cause she  had  interrupted  him,  but  rather  because 
she  hadn't.  He  could  see  no  more  than  the  outline 
of  her,  the  gleaming  moon  of  her  round  face,  in  the 
poise  of  which  a  something  or  other  suggested  ri- 


I20  BENDISH 

gidity.  Her  two  hands  made  one  white  blur  upon 
her  lap.  He  guessed  her  hostile,  and  waited  for  her 
to  declare  herself. 

By  and  by  she  spoke,  and  he  knew  by  the  tone 
that  she  was  not,  as  yet,  hostile.  "What  papers 
have  you  brought?"  she  asked  him. 

He  said:  "I  used  the  word  papers  in  a  legal  sense, 
unthinkingly.  Strictly  speaking,  there  is  only  one 
paper — the  will." 

"There  was  no  letter?  No  message?  Nothing 
to  say  what  he  wished?" 

"No,  there  was  nothing  at  all.  The  Duke  told 
me  that  Mr.  Lancelot  did  not  confide  in  him.  He 
asked  him  to  be  executor,  and  the  Duke  agreed. 
But  his  Grace  never  knew  the  terms  of  the  will 
until  it  was  opened  and  read."  It  was  not  possible 
for  him  to  guess  the  urgency  of  her  question,  nor 
its  despair.  If  he  had  known  the  testator  he  might 
have  understood  the  hardness  in  her  tone. 

"I  understand.  It  makes  it  very  difficult.  I 
thought  that  there  might  have  been  some  hint 
given — it's  all  very — very  difficult — "  Then  she 
broke  out.  "Of  course  Gervase — my  husband — 
will  never  agree  to  take  it.  I  know  that  quite  well. 
Indeed,  I  don't  care  to  ask  him " 

"Perhaps,"  Heniker  said,  "you  would  prefer  me 
to  ask  him." 

She  immediately  said,  "I  should  prefer  it  of  all 
things,  because — "  then  she  broke  off.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  need  trouble  you  with  reasons.  But 
we  shall  have  to  discuss  it,  I  suppose.    Will  you 


TO  RAPALLO  12  r 

tell  me  what  the  Duke  thought  about  it?    Are  you 
free  to  do  that?" 

"Perfectly  free,"  Heniker  replied.  "His  Grace's 
last  words  to  me  were,  '  Of  course  she  ought  to  take 
the  money,  but  of  course  she  won't.'"  SmiHng  to 
herself,  though  he  couldn't  know  that,  she  cupped 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  leaned  forward,  elbow 
to  knee,  to  consider  the  Duke  and  his  quiddity. 

"That  is  exactly  Hke  him.  It  tells  me  everything 
I  want  to  know.  His  common  sense  struggling 
with  his  chivalry.  He  knows  we  cannot  take  it — " 
There  was  glow  in  her  tones,  a  kind  of  chuckle  of 
approval. 

"He  used  one  reason  for  your  acceptance,"  Hen- 
iker said  then,  "which  I  shall  try  to  put  before  you, 
though  it  is  difficult.  He  suggested  that — the  tes- 
tator may  have  wished  to  signify  a  certain  indebted- 
ness from  himself  to  Mr.  Poore,  and  that  he  would 
have  been  happy  to  be  sure  that  it  would  be  so  ac- 
cepted by  him.     Do  I  make  myself  understood?" 

"Perfectly  well,"  she  said.  "I  think  that  very 
true.  I  am  sure  that  that  is  what  he  wished  to 
say.  I  am  so  sure  of  it  that,  personally,  I  should 
have  been  glad  if  Gervase  could  have  taken  it. 
But — "  then  she  got  up.  "I'm  very  sorry,  Mr. 
Heniker,  that  I  can't  talk  to  you  more  freely  about 
these  things.  If  you  leave  the  will  here  I'll  talk  to 
Gervase  about  it.  Will  you  tell  me  something  of 
the  Duke,  please?    Is  he  well?" 

Heniker  was  able  to  speak  freely  and  enthusias- 
tically about  the  great  man;  for  not  only  did  he 


122  BENDISH 

admire  him  unfeignedly  himself,  but  he  was  quite 
certain  that  the  lady's  sympathy  was  with  him. 
He  reported  his  Grace  as  "straight  as  a  ramrod," 
and  immersed  in  the  country's  affairs.  "He's  very 
unpopular  just  now,  as  I  daresay  you  know;  and 
he  is  aware  of  it.  He  says  that  he  has  acquaintance 
but  no  friends."  She  stirred  uneasily,  then  said, 
"He  has  more  than  he  can  remember." 

This  gave  Heniker  his  cue.  "Ah,  but  he  does 
remember,  Mrs.  Poore!  He  remembers  perhaps 
too  well  for  his  comfort."  This  brought  her  again 
to  her  feet.  She  came  and  stood  by  the  table,  lean- 
ing both  hands  upon  it.  "Please  tell  me  everything 
he  said.     I  ought  to  know." 

Heniker  rose  also  and  stood  by  her.  "Our  ac- 
quaintance is  very  slight,  but  I  venture  to  build 
upon  it.  I  will  tell  you  exactly  what  he  said.  '  Get 
her  to  come  back.  I'm  old  and  lonely.'  If  a  man 
of  his  sort  talks  about  his  age  it  is  because  he  feels 
it;  if  of  his  loneliness,  he's  very  lonely." 

She  agreed  with  him,  speaking  very  softly.  "Yes, 
yes,  you  are  right.  I'm  sure  he  wants  me,  but — " 
Then  she  broke  off.  "Yes,  I'll  go.  It  is  my  duty 
— I  owe  it  him.  Yes,  I'll  go.  I'll  talk  to  Gervase 
about  it.     He'll  understand  it." 

A  sudden  luminous  flash  from  her,  soft  yet  beat- 
ing fire  in  her  eyes,  shone  upon  him.  "It  is  difficult, 
you  see,  because  of  the  children.  They  are  so  young 
to  travel,  and  do  so  well  here — but  of  course  we 
must  risk  that." 

He  had  forgotten,  or  had  never  been  told,  that 


TO  RAPALLO  123 

there  were  children,  and  it  came  very  strongly  into 
his  mind  that  he  would  hke  to  see  them,  or  her  with 
them.  She  would  look  at  her  best  with  children, 
he  thought. 

But  now  she  turned  to  him,  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  You 
have  been  most  kind  and  tactful.  No  one  could 
have  been  kinder.  You  will  come  again,  of  course, 
before  you  go  back.  Perhaps  you  will  dine  with 
us — or  sup?"  He  professed  himself  at  her  call, 
and  then  made  liis  little  enquiry.  "The  children 
are  abed,  I  suppose?"  She  gave  him  her  full  atten- 
tion. 

"Not  yet;  but  it's  bedtime."  Then  she  flushed 
and  glowed.     "Would  you  like  to  see  them?" 

"I  should  like  it  of  all  things."  Her  eyes  laughed. 
She  beckoned  him  to  follow  her.  He  felt  as  if  she 
was  leading  him  by  the  hand. 

Two  round-eyed,  flaxen  Uttle  creatures  were  being 
washed  by  the  old  serva.  The  boy  stood,  stark  as 
he  was  born;  the  girl  was  on  the  woman's  lap. 
Both  were  rosy,  sturdy,  fine-fleshed,  round-faced, 
blue-eyed;  both  had  their  father's  scowl,  ridicu- 
lously softened.  When  she  stood  in  the  door  the 
boy  cried  "Mother!"  and  ran  to  her.  Then  he  saw 
Heniker,  and  clutched  at  the  gown  of  safety.  She 
picked  him  up  and  showed  him  with  pride.  "Italy 
agrees  with  him."  Her  voice  had  cheer  in  it.  "It 
agrees  with  you  too,  I  think,"  he  said.  She  ignored 
the  obvious  implication  without  embarrassment, 
and  took  over  her  duties  from  the  serva,  covering 


124  BENDISH 

herself  first  with  a  goodly  apron.  Heniker,  with  her 
boy  on  his  knee,  sat  out  the  ceremonial,  and  saw 
the  pair  to  bed.  The  boy  stood  up  to  his  mother's 
ear  while  he  said  his  prayer.  Heniker  watched  him, 
his  eyes  dim. 

Returned  to  his  lodging,  he  found  Bendish  and 
the  poet  in  full  debate,  thoroughly  interested  in 
each  other,  discussing  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
and  similar  high  themes.  Mr.  Poore  insisted  that 
his  new  friend  must  sup  with  him  and  his  wife. 
"You  will  love  her,"  he  said;  "everybody  must; 
but  if  you  do  not  you  mustn't  like  me." 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  Bendish  said,  "I  assure  you 
that  I  am  very  prone  to  like  my  friends'  wives. 
On  your  head  be  it!" 

"In  my  heart,  I  think,"  said  Poore,  and  they 
went  off  together,  talking  vehemently.  Heniker 
was  asked,  but  declined.  He  knew  when  he  was 
wanted.    Besides,  he  had  had  his  whack. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   WEDDED   LOVERS 

Mr.  Gervase  Poore,  thus  in  happy  exile  at 
Rapallo,  was  a  poet  of  originaHty  and  force — force 
both  of  conviction  and  of  utterance.  He  was  always 
perfectly  certain  that  he  was  right,  and  in  its  time, 
but  not  in  his,  the  world  came  to  be  much  of  his 
opinion.  For  the  world  of  his  own  day  he  was  too 
simple  and  too  sincere.  That  world  took  his  sim- 
plicity for  affectation,  and  his  sincerity  for  crude 
brutality.  But  he  was  neither  affected  nor  brutal. 
He  was  as  far  as  technic  goes  an  idealistic  realist. 
He  saw  ideas  as  palpable,  breathing  shapes,  and 
he  wrote  them  down  literally  as  he  saw  them,  just 
as  a  modem  novelist  will  describe  a  Jew  scratching 
his  head,  or  a  shopgirl  in  a  hysterical  passion.  He 
saw  them  dreadful  or  beautiful,  for  pity  or  terror, 
and  believed  them  worth  his  pains  of  description. 
The  world  thought  them  untrue  and  improper, 
when  it  thought  about  them  at  all,  which  was  not 
very  often.  For  the  most  part  it  ignored  Mr. 
Poore,  since  he  chose  to  express  himself  wholly  in 
verse;  but  there  had  been  a  time  when,  expressing 
himself  in  sudden  and  dramatic  action,  it  could  not 
ignore  him.  That  was  when,  three  years  before 
the  time  I  am  now  dealing  with,  he  had  run  away 

125 


126  BENDISH 

with  Mrs.  Lancelot,  a  very  fair  and  very  gentle 
lady,  who  talked  less  and  was  more  talked  of  than 
any  woman  in  the  great  world  of  politics  and  fash- 
ion. Of  her,  in  her  day,  the  world  of  great  and 
small  alike  heard  gladly,  not  only  because  she  was 
a  very  pretty  woman  who  had  eloped,  nor  again 
because  she  had  been  the  wife  of  the  Right  Hon- 
ourable Charles  Lancelot,  M.P.,  but  rather  for  that 
she,  beautiful,  fashionable,  unseeking  and  besought, 
had  been  the  close  friend,  and  many  said  the  more 
than  friend,  of  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  greatest  man 
in  England. 

The  world  said  that  she  made  a  double  elope- 
ment in  that  twilight  hour  when  she  left  husband 
and  friend  together  at  Fontemagra  in  the  Apennines 
and  joined  her  poet  lover  on  the  lower  road.  For 
since  the  death  of  the  Duchess  in  1825  she  and  her 
ci-devant  lord  had  lived  in  the  Duke's  house,  and 
dared  Rumour's  thousand  tongues.  Every  one  of 
these  had  been  bravely  at  work  ever  since,  wagging, 
clanging,  and  booming  like  Florentine  bells  at  Ave 
Maria,  proclaiming  romance  on  the  upstroke  and 
shame  on  the  down;  but  she  had  gone  her  beautiful, 
quiet  and  ordered  way,  never  far  from  the  side  of 
her  great  ally,  with  never  a  sign  of  faltering  from 
the  path  of  her  destiny,  never  a  hint  that  she  had  a 
care  of  her  own.  It  added  to  the  choiceness  of  the 
situation  that  she  was  one  of  your  recluse,  carven 
women  who  have  to  be  sought  out  to  be  discovered 
lovely,  who  never  flaunt  themselves,  who  rarely 
speak.     You  come  to  guess  in  time  that  they  heed 


THE  WEDDED  LOVERS  127 

everything;  that  those  guarded  eyes  can  break  down 
every  guard,  that  those  grave  Hps  hold  back  ardent 
breath,  and  what  tender  offices  of  healing  and  mercy 
lie  waiting  in  those  still  hands.  It  was  a  shock  to 
her  \forld,  which  had  so  far  taken  Uttle  stock  of  her, 
when  the  Duke  of  Devdzes  picked  her  out  of  a  thou- 
sand for  unique  devotion— deserting  for  her  sake  a 
miscellaneous  bevy^  chosen  at  random  and  held 
lightly  together  for  the  whims  of  an  appetite  which, 
even  then,  was  thought  to  be  gross;  but  that  same 
world  stood  astounded  when  Gervase  Poore,  un- 
knowTi  and  out-at-elbows,  huddhng  (one  thought) 
in  the  nameless  crowd  at  great  doors,  flashed  sud- 
den eyes  upon  her,  clove  his  way  to  her — in  his  old 
coat — through  the  press  of  dandies  and  uniforms, 
and  summoned  her  to  foUow  him  out  into  the  foggy 
dew.  They  said  that  he  haunted  her  whereabouts; 
literally  that  he  tracked  her  from  great  house  to 
great  house  and  jostled  with  the  mob  at  the  doors 
to  see  her  entry  and  exit.  A  story  was  told  of  a 
book  of  hot-pressed  rhymes,  all  about  her,  which 
came  to  her  notice  and  brought  him  a  card  for  a 
ball  at  Wake  House.  They  said  that  he  went,  saw 
and  conquered;  that  from  that  hour  she  was  his. 
He  made  no  concessions,  and  she  asked  none.  The 
great  assumption  was  implied  and  accepted.  The 
lovers,  in  Italy  with  the  Duke,  and  the  husband 
too,  fled  to  Rapallo.  There  was  a  pursuit,  an  inter- 
view between  the  husband  and  lover,  the  Duke 
being  present;  then  came  the  return  to  England  of 
the  two  injured  men;  then  the  Divorce  Bill;  then 


128  BENDISH 

the  death  of  Lancelot,  and  this  too  magnanimous 
will.  That  is,  roughly  speaking,  the  tale.  Mean- 
time, from  Rapallo  had  come  nothing  but — rhymes. 
Roland:  an  Epic,  in  1827,  a  strange  succession  of 
savage  battle  and  white  love  scenes;  and  in  1829 
The  Vision  of  Argos,  which  was  understood  to  be  the 
fruits  of  a  voyage  in  the  Levant  which  he  and  his 
beloved  had  made  in  1828.  The  curious  in  such 
matters  took  pleasure  in  finding  his  mistress  under 
the  veils  of  his  fierce  and  exalted  verse.  She  was, 
they  said,  Roland's  Aude  the  Fair — even  her  round 
face  was  on  Aude's  shoulders;  she  walked  through 
The  Vision,  a  slim,  low-breasted  Helen.  How  long 
could  this  go  on?  They  were  married,  of  course,  by 
now !  And  do  poets  continue  to  sing  of  their  wives? 
They  were  married,  and  they  were  lovers,  and 
so  far  that  exalted,  so  far-sought,  so  rarely-found 
state  of  grace  was  theirs  that  no  satisfaction  appeased 
desire,  and  no  mingling  of  natures  blended  one  in 
the  other;  but  each  saw  in  each  the  crown  of  his 
own.  In  an  enchanted  world,  its  only  human  ten- 
ants, they  walked  handfasted.  For  ever  must  he 
love,  and  she  be  fair.  If  she  had  been  fair  before 
when  care  had  drawn  her  cheeks,  dimmed  her  eyes, 
and  wasted  her  form,  she  was  radiant  now,  with 
love  to  make  her  blood  sting,  to  flush  her  cheeks, 
ripen  her  breast,  make  her  eyes  to  shine  like  dan- 
cing water.  But  her  beauty  was  rather  spiritual 
than  bodily:  it  was  of  her  soul,  swift  as  a  wind- 
driven  cloud,  of  her  mind  as  true  as  a  rare  mirror, 
of  her  heart  as  bountiful  as  the  lap  of  Demeter. 


THE  WEDDED  LOVERS  129 

All  this,  by  the  grace  of  God,  transfiguring,  glorify- 
ing, making  sacred  her  sweet  body,  he  saw  still  and 
adored.  But  Love  to  the  Hke  of  Poore  was  a  soar- 
ing flight,  which  you  flew  carrying  in  your  hands  a 
filmy*" wonder  which  it  behoved  you,  howsoever  you 
towered,  to  keep  from  harm.  x\n  adverse  breath 
might  shatter  it;  yet  it  was  very  strong.  It  looked 
like  a  bubble  of  foam;  yet  no  shock  would  touch 
it,  to  hurt — except  it  passed  through  yourseh. 
You  yourself  were  its  strength:  it  was  just  as  strong 
as  you  were.  And  at  the  topmost  peak  of  your 
rocket-flight,  at  your  proudest  moment  of  upUfting, 
while  you  were  in  the  very  act  to  spurn  the  stars 
with  your  footsoles,  a  thin  cold  stream  of  air  might 
thread  a  way  through  you,  and  puff!  the  treasure 
was  star-dust,  and  headlong  down  sped  you,  like 
the  stick  of  a  rocket.  Down,  if  you  are  lucky,  you 
break  your  neck  and  have  done  with  it ;  but  it  may 
be  that  you  Hve,  a  maimed,  tortured  sight,  and  drag 
out  a  length  of  days  hunting  the  world  for  your 
scattered  star-dust.  Some  doomed  wretches  so  do; 
and  some  of  them  seek  it  on  dunghills,  and  some 
about  the  altars  of  churches.  But  they  never  find 
it  again. 

So  Poore  flew  a  perilous  flight;  but  meantime 
his  head  was  among  the  stars,  and  his  heart  felt 
the  great  air,  and  his  mouth  was  a  trumpet  for 
paean.  As  for  her — but  what  is  great  love  to  a 
woman?  Pride  in  secret,  treasure  to  hoard,  largess 
to  give  out  by  the  lapful  at  a  time.  Georgiana 
Poore  was  become  a  well  of  charity  since  she  had 


I30  BENDISH 

filled  herself  with  Gervase.  Loved  by  him,  she  felt 
that  she  loved  all  the  world.  She  had  no  fragile 
vase  to  carry  on  her  flight;  rather,  it  carried  her, 
held  her  like  a  shrine.  In  it  she  stood,  her  hands 
stretched  out,  holding  her  cloak  wide,  that  all  the 
outcasts  and  naked  of  the  world  might  come  and 
find  shelter  and  warmth.  To  love  Gervase  was  no 
service;  she  breathed  Gervase.  To  do  the  service 
which  she  owed  was  impossible;  she  could  not  love 
enough. 

Such  a  woman,  a  wellspring  of  love,  is  born  to 
be  the  mate  of  a  man,  and  will  bear  her  children, 
and  love  them  too,  for  love's  sake.  I  don't  think 
she  loved  them,  as  your  inevitable  mothers  do, 
because  they  were  hers,  but  rather  because  they 
were  his.  She  was  always  a  little  remote  from 
them,  never  quite  in  their  busy,  teeming  world. 
She  came  down  to  them,  as  the  Angel  came  to 
Dante,  in  mercy,  love,  and  charity;  but  she  was 
denizen  of  a  thinner  air,  and  could  not  help  the 
labouring  of  her  breath  as  she  served.  To  Poore 
this  effort  in  her  way  of  service  made  her  the  more 
adorable,  emphasized  her  distinction,  enhanced  her. 
She  stooped,  she  pitied,  she  served,  like  Demeter. 
It  was  an  exquisite  domestication,  the  taming  of  a 
Goddess.  And,  if  the  Duke  were  right— and  he 
was  a  shrewd  observer — this  Goddess  would  be 
thoroughly  domesticated  before  her  time  was  up. 

So  much  preface  is  due  to  the  after-doings  of 
this  high-flying  pair,  upon  whose  present  happy 
state  Bendish  is  now  looming. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THREATENED   INTERIOR 

In  the  twilight  hour  when  Heniker  was  exhibiting 
his  mission  to  Mrs.  Poore,  and  making  friends  with 
her  children,  her  husband  was  gathering  enthusiasm 
as  he  walked  with  eager  steps  that  valley  road  which 
ran,  like  a  narrow  ledge,  between  precipice  and  abyss. 
Quite  suddenly,  having  reached  a  decisive  point  of 
desire,  he  turned  right  about,  to  face  the  sea,  and, 
urging  down  the  hill  into  the  town,  swept  into  Ben- 
dish's  lodgings  like  a  crested  wave  and  carried  the 
young  lord  off  his  feet.  He  strode  towards  him 
with  his  hand  out.  "My  lord,"  he  said,  "let  me 
shake  hands  with  you.  My  name  is  Poore.  I  know 
a  good  man  when  I  hear  of  him,  and  can't  afford  to 
miss  the  sight  of  him.  We  both  love  England  and 
hate  her  tyrants.  You  can  laugh  at  them  and  I 
can  howl.     Between  us  we  might  do  something." 

He  spoke  just  as  he  felt  at  the  moment,  without 
calculation;  but  that  was  the  way  to  catch  Ben- 
dish  :  snatch  him  up  before  he  had  time  to  remember 
that  he  was  a  victim  of  unrequited  love,  or  a  lonely 
thinker  exiled  for  his  opinions,  or  before  he  could  hit 
upon  the  proper  way  of  imposing  himself  upon  a 
man  whom  he  suspected  of  strength.     To  this  he 

131 


132  BENDISH 

would  certainly  have  turned  his  effort  if  he  had  been 
given  time.  He  had  been  intimidated  by  the  se- 
rious way  in  which  his  friends  had  spoken  of  Poore: 
there,  at  least,  he  had  felt — out  there  at  Rapallo 
— was  couched  a  spirit  which  might  mate  with  his 
own,  or  vie  with  it.  He  must  keep  an  eye  for  any- 
thing that  came  from  Rapallo.  He  had  done  so, 
and  the  constant  outlook  had  fretted  his  nerves. 
He  was  bad  at  waiting,  as  all  imaginative  men  are. 
When  Heniker  had  declared  his  mission,  then,  he 
decided  to  rush  in.  Like  a  terrier  at  the  fox's  earth, 
he  would  grapple  and  have  done  with  it.  By  the 
time  he  reached  Rapallo  he  was  in  such  a  state  of 
tense  expectancy  that  Poore  was  become  an  enemy 
to  be  stalked.  Mentally,  he  drew  towards  him  foot 
by  wary  foot,  throwing  up  earthworks  as  he  went. 
If  the  thing  had  gone  its  normal  course,  all  the  for- 
malities of  credentials  observed,  the  odds  are  that 
he  would  have  been  at  his  most  inaccessible  when 
they  finally  met.  He  would  have  played  the  man  of 
fashion  or  the  peer,  and  baffled  the  poet. 

But  nothing  of  this  happened.  Bendish,  instead, 
flushed  and  happy,  shook  hands  with  simple  grati- 
tude. "This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Poore.  I 
don't  deserve  it — as  yet;  but  I  am  grateful."  Poore, 
already  thinking  of  more  important  things,  began  at 
once  to  talk  of  them.  No  diplomat  could  have  gone 
more  skilfully  to  work. 

He  was  at  his  favourite  exercise,  pacing  the  room 
with  Hght  and  lunging  strides.  His  hands  were 
behind   his   back,    his    head    thrust   forward.     He 


THREATENED  INTERIOR  133 

looked  like  a  man  breasting  a  gale  of  wind.  "I 
haven't  heard  an  English  voice  or  seen  an  Enghsh 
face  for  three  years  and  more — save  one,  save  one 
— the  mirror  of  my  own.  You  know,  no  doubt,  so 
much*' of  my  history.  I  did  a  simple  thing  simply, 
and  abide  by  it  in  the  land  where  such  things  can 
be  done  still.  I  found  a  lovely  and  hapless  creature 
enmeshed  in  horrible  circumstance.  I  cut  the  nets 
away — what  else  could  I  do?  Love,  that  power  of 
the  wing,  drew  us  up  together  out  of  sight  and 
sound  of  clamour  and  horror;  but  I  believe  I  should 
have  done  what  I  did  out  of  pure  pity  and  under- 
standing. However  that  may  be,  the  thing  was 
done,  and  here  we  have  remained,  shaping  life  to 
the  round,  as  two  may  do  who  have  but  one  heart 
between  them.  I  think  that  the  time  is  coming 
when  we  must  put  ourselves  to  the  test:  we  don't 
want  to  shirk  our  business  in  the  world.  We  fit 
ourselves  to  do  it  here — but  it  lies,  we  know,  over 
there.  .  .  . 

"There  is  a  sense  in  which  I  see  England,  the 
venerable  mother  of  us  all,  fettered  and  entangled, 
as  I  saw  my  love,  helpless  in  the  snares  of  circum- 
stance. I  see,  and  I  declare — and  can  I  do  more?" 
He  stopped  in  his  pacing  to  look  at  his  companion. 
With  his  march  his  voice  ceased  its  rhythmic  beat. 
He  grew  younger  and  less  inspired.  "I'm  not  pre- 
pared to  say  that  I  can.  There's  cut-and-thrust 
work  out  there  for  somebody — but  the  fisticuffs 
of  a  mob!  Cobbett's  fists,  Burdett's,  do  no  more 
than  Dick's  and  Harry's— and  lead  them— whither? 


134  BENDISH 

O  Heaven!  To  a  hustings!  To  vote  like  free  men? 
Not  so.  But  to  cheer  while  shopkeepers  vote! 
Reckon  up  the  worth  of  that  in  blood  and  tears. 
It's  not  so  much  a  leader  that  they  want  as  a  seer. . . . 
"If  a  poet  can  do  anything — at  least  he  can  see. 
He  can  undress  notions  and  hold  them  up  in  their 
nakedness  as  God  made  them.  To  some  it  is  hke 
the  unclouding  of  the  sun;  but  some  are  left  bleed- 
ing raw — those  which  have  never  had  any  natural 
covers  of  their  own — and  look  like  skinned  rabbits. 
Is  not  that,  perhaps,  our  business  in  England? 
Yes,  it's  our  first,  but  not  necessarily  our  last,  be- 
cause w^e  are  men  as  well  as  seers.  We  too  are 
throttled  by  tyrant  circumstance.  Somebody  has 
to  act,  some  one  must  lead.  Shall  the  bHnd  lead 
the  blind?  You  see  where  they  are  tending — to 
the  hustings,  to  the  lobby!  And  there  are  fields 
to  till,  and  grain  to  sow,  and  women  to  love,  and 
songs  to  sing,  and  children  to  get — and  the  stars 
above  us.  O  God,  and  we  die  and  we  die,  that 
shopmen  may  vote  whig  and  tory!"  He  stopped, 
throwing  up  his  hands,  then  said  finally,  "So  much 
for  the  leadership  of  the  blind." 

Lord  Bendish  was  very  astute  when  he  met  a 
man  of  mettle,  and  very  quick.  Half  an  eye  told 
him  all  that  he  needed.  Knowing  his  man,  you 
could  trust  him  to  adapt  himself,  to  find  the  key 
which  let  him  in  by  the  private  door.  Gravity, 
simplicity,  directness  characterised  him  throughout 
the  order  of  the  night.     If  Poore  was  for  resolving 


THREATENED   INTERIOR  135 

politics  to  the  elements,  he  was  ready  for  him.  He 
eschewed  parties,  and  contemplated  with  his  new 
friend  The  Rights  of  Man,  and  Political  Justice. 
Between  them  they  undressed  the  creature  as  bare 
as  he  was  born, — and  barer  by  a  good  deal;  for 
when  Heniker  came  in  to  dine  he  found  them  busy 
about  his  soul,  as  has  been  revealed  already. 

Talking  fiercely,  they  went  up  the  hill  and  reached 
the  villa.  There  Georgiana  stood  within  the  door- 
way, starry-eyed,  and  with  face  aflame  for  her  lover. 
And  there  Bendish  became  another  person.  Con- 
fronted with  woman,  that  beast  of  chase,  he  was 
made  man  again — that  untirable  hunter. 

But  there  was  nothing  apparent.  The  change 
was  internal.  Presented,  he  saluted  her  with  high 
courtesy,  and  did  not  lose  his  accessibility.  There 
was  no  flagrancy  about  his  interest  in  the  fashion- 
able lady  who  had  demoded  herself,  nothing  what- 
ever to  show  that  his  vanity  was  piqued,  and  that 
he  was  immediately  prepared  to  pit  himself  against 
the  possessor  of  her  heart.  But  it  was  so.  His 
vanity  was  all  alight;  every  word  that  he  used, 
every  gesture,  every  look  was  a  move  in  a  game 
at  which  already  he  was  insatiable  and  a  good  hand. 
He  had  a  keen  eye  too  for  women.  He  saw  this 
one  to  be  of  rare  quality.  Her  reticence,  her  fru- 
gality both  of  form  and  colour,  her  masked  as  well 
as  her  revealed  fire,  the  paradox  she  was — shy  and 
daring,  guarded  in  word,  yet  heedless  in  action, 
beautiful  rather  by  implication  than  in  fact:  all  this 
he  found  infinitely  provoking.     He  studied  her  parts 


136  BENDISH 

like  an  amateur  of  statuary.  Who  was  the  cunning 
artist  who  moulded  this  woman  so  slight  and  yet 
so  exquisite?  She  had  the  forms  of  a  child  upon 
the  model  of  a  goddess.  Nothing  too  much!  was 
his  maxim  as  he  worked. 

Acutely  sensitive  to  voluptuous  suggestion,  he 
assured  himself  of  these  things  as  he  gazed  at  her, 
even  in  the  moment  of  making  his  first  bow;  but 
the  impetuosity  of  his  host  swept  him  into  the 
house  and  to  the  supper-table,  claimed  him  for  his 
own  and  lifted  him  into  fields  of  abstract  specula- 
tion where  he  was  expected  to  take  his  share  of 
the  glorious  game  of  tossing  the  spheres  about  like 
shuttlecocks.  Bendish  did  it  well — did  it  indeed 
the  better  for  having  a  witness  of  his  feats.  In 
spectatorship,  as  in  all  else,  he  found  Georgiana 
provocative.  She  said  little,  and  betrayed  rarely 
what  she  felt  as  she  listened  and  watched;  but 
nothing  escaped  Bendish,  who  felt  himself  now  and 
then  rewarded  by  a  gleam,  by  a  flush  of  colour,  by 
a  smile,  as  if  she  hardly  cared  to  confess  her  pleas- 
ure in  the  talk,  even  to  herself.  The  meal  was  of 
the  simplest,  Poore  and  his  wife  spare  eaters,  and 
Bendish,  very  sensitive  to  suggestion,  found  himself 
(to  his  amusement)  as  austere  as  they  were.  He 
watched  with  all  his  eyes  the  messages  which  passed 
between  his  host  and  hostess. 

He  had  seen  the  look  in  Georgiana's  eyes  when 
they  came  into  the  light;  and  Poore's  quick  move- 
ment towards  her.  Their  hands  had  encountered 
and  clasped  for  a  moment.    Her  face  had  strained 


THREATENED  INTERIOR  137 

towards  him,  but  there  had  been  no  kissing.  "Dear- 
est," Poore  had  said  immediately,  "I  bring  you 
Lord  Bendish,"  and  she  had  immediately  turned 
to  face  her  visitor.  She  had  offered  her  hand — so 
thin  a  hand — without  a  word,  conventional  or  other- 
wise. Her  welcome  had  been  in  her  eyes,  he  thought, 
frank  and  friendly.  Interested?  Yes,  he  thought 
so;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  devoted  him- 
self to  calling  up  that  first  friendly,  interested  regard. 
Poore  was  not  an  exorbitant  speaker.  When  he  had 
deHvered  himself  of  the  burden  of  his  heart  he  was 
apt  to  fall  into  brooding  silences.  During  these 
Bendish  talked  his  best,  addressing  the  pair,  but 
with  his  eye  for  the  lady.  He  kept  her  attention, 
he  observed;  and  more  than  that,  she  necessitated 
his.  He  had  to  be  wary,  for  she  was  apt  to  flash 
a  sudden  question  upon  him  when  something  es- 
caped him  which  she  did  not  follow.  He  saw  that 
her  mind  was  engaged,  that  she  did  not  relish  talk 
for  its  own  sake,  but  like  a  good  hound  kept  to  the 
first  scent  and  was  not  easily  thrown  out.  Yet  she 
was  very  quick;  few  allusions  escaped  her. 

After  supper  Poore  came  to  himself  and  asked 
her  about  the  children.  She  smiled  her  assurance 
that  they  were  sound  asleep,  and  when  he  went  out 
of  the  room,  tiptoe  already  at  the  mere  thought  of 
sleep,  she  did  not  go  with  him.  Bendish  saw  his 
way  to  establishing  a  relation. 

"He  loves  them?" 

Her  eyes  enveloped  him.     "He  adores  them." 

"You  have  two  children?" 


138  BENDISH 

"Yes." 

"You  are  happy  then."  He  said  this  as  com- 
mentary, not  without  the  impUcation  upon  his  own 
loneliness  which  a  sigh  might  afford.  At  the  mo- 
ment he  undoubtedly  felt  that  he  was  lonely.  But 
she  did  not  take  up  the  hint,  and  he  found  out  that 
her  ears  were  set  back  for  the  return  of  Poore. 
The  poet  presently  re-entered  the  room. 

His  face  was  irradiate.  "They  are  beautiful," 
he  said  to  Bendish.     "  Come  and  look  at  them." 

Not  even  Bendish  was  offended  by  the  simpUcity 
of  this  proposal.  He  immediately  rose  and  stood 
by  the  door.  Georgiana  slowly  got  up — as  if  un- 
wiUingly — and  passed  between  the  two  men.  Ben- 
dish saw  her  eyehds  flicker  as  she  went  under  her 
husband's  eyes.    He  missed  nothing. 

She  led  them  into  a  long  narrow  white  room  lit 
by  a  floating  wick,  and  full  of  shadows  and  glooms. 
An  old  white-haired  peasant  woman  rose  and  hid 
her  hands  under  her  apron.  Georgiana  was  stand- 
ing by  the  bed,  looking  down  upon  the  rapt  pair 
within  it.  Two  flaxen  heads,  two  glowing  cheeks 
— Bendish  from  under  his  brows  watched  the  mother. 

He  judged  that  she  was  not  moved  as  Poore  was. 
He  judged  that  she  saw  in  them  the  fruit  of  pain 
and  wearmess;  but  grudging  none  of  it,  seemed 
above  their  needs,  as  if  she  knew  their  necessities 
before  they  asked  and  their  ignorance  in  asking. 
It  was  odd  to  Bendish,  and  moved  him  strongly, 
that  she  who  had  had  all  the  suffering  of  the  tillage 
and  the  reaping  should  by  that  very  fact  be  now 


THREATENED  INTERIOR  139 

so  remote  from  it.  They  were  of  her  very  flesh  and 
blood,  and  yet  she  looked  down  upon  them  now 
with  gentle  pity,  with  compassionate  humour — as 
if  wondering  that  things  so  small  could  come  out 
of  need  so  vast  and  love  and  anguish  so  untold  as 
that  involved.  Beneath  her  husband's  eyes  she 
stood  and  looked,  and  all  surrender,  all  the  splendid 
humble  bounty  of  woman  was  upon  her  musing 
face.  "I  give,  Igive,  andstilllgive!  Ah,  so  small 
a  thing,  which  seemed  so  great!"  Bendish,  indeed, 
missed  nothing. 

Poore  was  looking  at  the  dreaming  pair  through 
misty  eyes.  "They  are  fast — fast;  they  are  not 
here.  God  knows  where  they  are  floating  now." 
Georgiana,  seeing  them  intensely,  smiled — a  smile 
at  once  tender  and  strange.  Bendish  thought  her 
almost  dreadfully  remote.  As  if  her  secret  mind 
was  aware  of  his  concern,  presently  she  stooped 
and  daintily  kissed  the  cheek  of  each.  As  she 
straightened  from  the  devotion,  her  husband's  hand 
touched  her  waist,  just  ht  and  touched  her  there; 
and  by  a  pretty  gesture  she  leaned  back  until  she 
felt  the  support  of  him.  She  stood  into  him,  Ben- 
dish considered,  as  one  might  stand  in  the  angle  of 
a  wall,  touching  each  face,  protected  from  the  winds. 
It  was  only  a  momentary  shelter  that  she  took,  for 
soon  she  moved  away,  with  a  nod  to  the  old  watcher 
of  the  room. 

Shortly  afterwards  Bendish  took  his  leave,  and 
the  poet  went  with  him  to  the  gate.  They  stood 
for  a  moment  under  the  stars,  upon  whose  flower- 


I40  BENDISH 

Strewn  field  cypresses  made  lagoons  of  deep  black. 
Neither  man  spoke,  but  Bendish  knew  that  his  host 
was  huge  with  exaltation,  and  saw  that  he  was 
restless  with  it. 

As  he  went  down  the  hill  to  his  lodging  a  mo- 
ment's pang  disturbed  him.  This  pretty  interior — 
he  was  then  to  break  in  upon  it!  He  gloomed  upon 
his  fate.  The  Man  of  Destiny!  The  Wrecker  of 
Hearths! 

Within  the  doomed  house  Poore  had  his  wife 
in  his  arms,  while  she  told  him  of  her  interview 
with  Heniker.  It  was  the  fact  that  Poore  himself 
felt  the  approach  of  something  Uke  a  doom,  while 
giving  himself  assurance  after  assurance  that  noth- 
ing in  what  she  told  him  could  be  a  possible  threat- 
ening to  his  present  happiness.  How  could  it  be? 
Love  and  trust  were  in  every  fold  of  her  clear  voice, 
they  were  implied  in  every  note  of  her  thought. 
Yet  what  she  said  had  the  impress  of  a  sobbed  con- 
fession, and  so  stabbed  while  it  touched  him.  "  Dear- 
est," she  said,  "I  feel  that  we  owe  him  so  much — " 
She  was,  of  course,  speaking  of  the  Duke — for  the 
dispositions  of  poor  Charles  Lancelot's  money  were 
waved  aside  at  the  outset! — "so  much  that  we  can't 
pay  him  enough.  He  gave  me  to  you — he  had 
claims  upon  me  from  the  very  begiiming,  and  made 
nothing  of  them.  He  was  very  generous — he  thought 
nothing  of  himself — and  now  that  he's  getting 
old,  and  is  lonely,  I  do  think  it  may  be  my  duty  to 
do  what  I   can.     I   didn't   understand   from   Mr. 


THREATENED   INTERIOR  141 

Heniker  that  he  asked  me  to  go  back,  in  30  many 
words — but  Mr.  Heniker  beHeved  that  he  wanted 
me — and  I  feel  certain  of  it  myself — so  that,  if  you 
could  see  your  way — " 

This  was  a  perilous  moment,  though  it  didn't  last 
long.  Here  was  the  wife  asking  leave  to  go  back 
to  succour  an  old  lover — asking  with  a  falter  in  her 
voice,  but  with  clear  intention,  with  too  clear  desire. 
And  yet — and  yet — not  a  doubt  of  her!  Poore, 
maybe,  was  still  too  much  the  lover  to  be  enough 
the  mate  of  such  a  woman  as  this.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  felt  mortally  stabbed.  His  hold  upon  her 
relaxed,  his  arms  fell  from  her.  He  plunged  his 
hands  into  his  breeches'  pockets. 

"\Vhat  do  you  want  of  me,  my  love?"  he  said. 
"Permission  to  return?    But — you  are  free  as  air." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide-open,  sad  eyes. 
"You  know  that  I  shouldn't  go  back  unless  you 
said  that  it  was  right.  It  couldn't  be  right  unless 
you — unless  we  both  saw  it  so."  She  strained 
away  her  face;  when  she  turned  it  to  him  again 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Gervase,  we 
must  always  see  together — that  means  everything 
to  me." 

He  was  touched  immediately — "My  love,  my 
love—"  He  had  her  to  his  breast  again.  "You 
are  the  lamp  to  my  feet.  I  was  dismayed  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  lost  the  way.  But  a  word  from  you 
brings  me  back.  I  trust  your  view  of  duty  abso- 
lutely. Say  no  more — we  will  go  back — you  shall 
do  whatever  you  feel  to  be  due—    I  can't  grudge 


142  BENDISH 

any  man  or  woman  in  the  world  the  light  of  your 
charity — ^but" — he  clasped  her  fiercely — "love  me, 
for  God's  sake — love  me  for  ever." 

"My  love,  my  love,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  her 
lips. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  INVADING   SEED 

Heniker,  summoned  to  the  Villa,  met  the  family 
in  conclave.  The  mother,  in  white,  had  the  baby- 
on  her  lap;  the  boy,  shockheaded,  flaxen  and  flushed, 
with  his  father's  scowl  and  sulky  blue  eyes  beneath 
it,  sat  on  the  floor  and  played  with  incredibly  small 
stones  imported  with  grunts  from  the  garden;  the 
father,  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  forged  about  the 
room  while  he  uttered  himself.  He  was  very  de- 
tached— his  thoughts  came  from  him  in  jets,  like 
water  from  an  intermittent  pump.  He  had  the  air 
of  a  giant  irritated  by  gnats,  surprised  at  his  own 
annoyance,  quite  unable  to  see  what  it  was  that 
annoyed  him  so  much.  Heniker's  eyes  found  a 
haven  of  peace  from  the  strong  waters  when  they 
turned  to  Georgiana  looking  benevolently  down  at 
the  child  swarming  at  her  breast  after  her  string  of 
beads.  She  added  nothing  to  what  her  husband 
said  or  refrained  from  saying,  but  Heniker  knew 
that  she  was  Ustening. 

"We  have  discussed  it,  you  know,  and  we  con- 
clude that  it's  quite  impossible.  ...  It  seems  un- 
gracious to  refuse  a  dead  man  .  .  .  yet  he  has  a 
better  chance  of  understanding,  I  believe,  than  a 
living  one.  ...  I  see  his  motive  ...  it  had  been 
better  not  thrust  into  one's  hands.  ...  It  is  like 

M3 


144  BENDISH 

a  plea — 'Take  it,  or  you  blame  me  again.'  He 
need  not  have  thought  it  of  us.  .  .  .  All  that  a  man 
could  do — more  than  most  would  do — he  did.  But 
to  perpetuate  his  atonement — to  keep  his  body  on 
the  cross  .  .  .  before  our  eyes.  .  .  .  No,  no.  He 
sees  that  we  are  right  now — he  knows  better.  .  .  . 
It  can't  be.  Money  is  an  accursed  thing  ...  it 
falsifies  relations,  it  puts  you  wrong  with  yourself, 
and  with  your  neighbours.  We  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  .  .  .  But  my  wife's  own  money  is 
another  matter.  I  don't  see  how  she  can  avoid 
having  it.  .  .  .  You  will  no  doubt  do  what  may  be 
proper  about  that.  She  renounced  it,  of  course,  so 
long  as  he  lived  .  .  .  while  it  was,  morally,  subject 
to  settlement  .  .  .  but  now  ...  I  trust  you  to  do 
the  right  thing  for  her  and  her  children.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  and  there's  another  thing  which  she  wishes 
me  to  say  to  you.  We  return  to  England  shortly. 
Pray  tell  that  to  the  Duke  .  .  .  she  has  told  me 
that  he  is  anxious  .  .  .  well,  she  will  see  him  soon. 
.  .  .  My  feeling  is  that  there  are  troubles  ahead. 
...  I  know  very  little  about  politics  ...  it  hardly 
seems  to  me  a  practical  matter.  Practical  matters 
— life,  death,  air  to  breathe  and  food  to  eat — are 
going  to  intervene.  You  can't  drill  starving  men. 
This  rick-burning,  this  machine-smashing,  these 
gaunt  mobs  about  the  fields — this  means  starvation. 
The  whole  thing's  wrong — not  to  be  solved  by  a 
trumpery  Reform  Bill.  You  might  as  well  allay 
brain-fever  with  a  small- toothed  comb!  Oh,  Mr. 
Heniker,  it's  absurd.  .  .  .  But  these  things  are  not 


THE  INVADING  SEED  145 

our  immediate  concern  ...  we  will  go  back  .  .  . 
that's  settled.  ..."  Then,  quite  suddenly,  he 
broke  off  and  held  his  hand  out.  "Good-bye,  Mr. 
Heniker  ...  I  must  go  and  walk  about."  He 
turned  to  his  wife,  picked  up  her  hand  and  kissed 
the  tips  of  her  fingers.  She  looked  up,  seriously 
searching  his  face.  Love  and  gratitude  beamed 
from  her.  He  hovered,  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed 
her,  touched  the  head  of  the  child  in  her  arms  and 
went  out.    The  room  seemed  strangely  calm. 

Heniker  had  a  few  words  more  ^\dth  Georgiana. 
She  gave  him  a  letter  for  the  Duke.  "Tell  him 
that  I  shall  see  him  soon.  We  have  talked  it  all 
over.  My  husband  agrees  with  me — I  hope  you 
will  have  a  good  journey.  I  suppose  that  we  shall 
go  by  sea — from  Genoa.  It  costs  much  less,  and 
is  easier  with  ciiildren." 

Heniker  thought  that  that  depended — on  the  sea. 
No,  no,  she  said,  they  both  loved  a  sea-voyage. 
She  glowed  gravely  as  he  asked  leave  to  kiss  the 
children,  watched  him  do  it,  and  was  very  friendly 
as  he  went,  going  with  him  to  the  door  encumbered 
with  the  heavy  child,  and  standing  there,  a  slip  of 
a  Madonna,  to  see  him  go.  The  last  thing  he  saw 
of  the  Villa  was  that  slim  shaft  of  grace,  leaning 
back  to  its  burden — the  sun  upon  her  hair  and  the 
blue  of  her  eyes.  He  thought  as  he  went,  There  is 
a  woman  in  whom  is  no  guile. 

Lord  Bendish,  having  other  things  to  think  of, 
bid  him  a  light  farewell.     "I  shall  stay  here,"  he 


146  BENDISH 

said.  "I  like  the  place — I  like  the  people.  I  shall 
probably  take  a  villa  and  get  some  servants.  Horses 
I  must  have  too.  If  you  could  have  stayed,  I 
should  have  been  glad — but  I  suppose  Mackintosh 
can  do  what's  absolutely  necessary.  You  might 
see  that  they  pack  my  books  for  me.  I  have  writ- 
ten fully  to  Wybrow.  You  have  the  letter  with 
the  others?  Good.  Nothing  else,  I  think.  Oh, 
yes,  money !  You  must  send  me  some  immediately. 
I  may  run  short."  Reminded  of  the  Coronation, 
he  was  scornful.  He  damned  the  Coronation.  Free 
men  didn't  walk  behind  kings,  he  said.  He  was  in  a 
rising  republican  mood.  Heniker  chuckled  to  see 
him  pound  up  and  down  the  room  like  Poore.  Then 
he  set  out  for  home,  and  Rose  Pierson. 

Here  begins  an  association  with  which  the  Poores, 
at  any  rate,  had  no  call  to  reproach  themselves, 
though  to  Poore  himself,  reflecting  upon  it  later, 
the  conjunction  of  Lord  Bendish  and  the  passage 
homewards  had  a  sinister  effect,  one  upon  the  other. 
Poore  was  too  much  the  poet  not  to  be  an  exorbi- 
tant lover,  giving  all  so  long  as  all  was  given,  see- 
ing his  love  so  high  above  him  that  should  she  really 
come  within  reach  she  would  hardly  have  seemed 
the  same  rare  creature  to  him.  It  is  useless  to  deny 
that  he  was  wounded  by  her  desire  to  comfort  the 
Duke.  Perhaps  he  was  more  bruised  than  wounded. 
He  did  not  bleed  at  the  heart;  there  was  no  loss 
of  virtue;  but  there  was  a  soreness,  the  place  was 
tender.    There  was  a  note  of  despair  now,  making 


THE  INVADING  SEED  147 

his  passion  fierce  and  spasmodic.  He  would  clasp 
her  in  a  sudden  frenzy,  then  renounce  his  hold,  and 
gloom  apart.  He  told  himself  that  she  was  no 
longer  whole-heartedly  his,  and  his  courage  fainted 
within  him  at  the  thought  that  he  might  yet  compel 
her  utter  love.  To  faint  at  such  a  thought  was  to 
renounce  it.  If  he  had  not  done  it  in  these  three 
years  of  perfect  companionship,  of  passion  at  its 
keenest  flame,  of  parentage — here  in  Rapallo,  empty 
of  all  but  the  pair  of  them — how  could  he  hope  to 
do  it  in  London,  at  the  Duke's  great  house,  at  as- 
sembhes,  in  the  turmoil  of  the  shifting  crowds? 
Yet  he  felt  that  he  had  never  loved  her  so  entirely 
as  when  he  now  loved  her  in  despair. 

She,  on  her  part,  knew  well  what  was  the  matter 
with  him;  and  while  she  could  have  laughed  at  his 
fancies,  seeing  their  entire  absurdity,  she  was  much 
more  ready  to  cry.  Yet  she  could  do  nothing  to 
help  him  who  could  not  help  himself.  Nothing 
could  alter  facts  to  her  candid  vision — and  here 
were  facts:  the  Duke  was  her  friend;  he  was  old, 
he  was  lonely;  he  needed  her;  she  must  go.  These 
things  to  her  were  as  clear  as  the  sun  at  noon;  they 
were,  in  fact,  as  clear  as  that  other  outstanding 
fact  that  she  wholly  loved  Gervase  and  could  love 
no  more.  She  knew,  what  a  man  never  knows,  that 
women  can  love  a  dozen,  each  according  to  his  need, 
while  she  is  possessed,  gladly  and  proudly  possessed, 
by  one  only.  She  can  love  her  children,  her  friends, 
the  world  at  large:  indeed,  the  more  she  is  pos- 
sessed, the  greater  her  treasure,  the  more  glad  she 


148  BENDISH 

to  spend  it.  But  Georgiana  knew  that  Gervase 
could  not  understand  that.  She  knew  that  in  man 
all  the  emotions  concentred  upon  one  object.  She 
knew  that  he  had  no  thought  for  anybody  in  the 
world  but  her.  She  knew  that,  with  men,  trust  in 
the  woman  loved  may  coexist  with  fear  of  losing 
her.  No  security  for  a  man  of  Gervase's  sort:  she 
knew  that.  As  for  herself,  the  more  she  loved  him 
the  more  she  loved  his  fellows.  She  felt  herself 
so  rich  that  there  need  be  no  end  to  her  charity. 
So  she  opened  her  arms  thankfully  to  the  world, 
and  would  have  fed  the  poor  at  her  breast  if  need 
were. 

But  now  between  them  there  lurked  a  little  pointed 
seed,  piercing  the  breast  of  each  as  they  loved.  In 
him  the  very  grief  was  that  she  could  not  love  him 
wholly  since  she  acknowledged  a  duty  to  another 
man;  in  her  there  was  the  pain  that,  loving  him 
utterly,  he  should  misread  her  so.  Why,  how  could 
she  so  be  in  charity  with  all  men  if  she  were  not 
safely  sealed  in  his  heart?  And  how  could  he  not 
know  that?  But  she  saw  that  he  could  not,  and 
pitied  him  deeply.  Her  heart  ached  for  him — but 
she  could  not  falter  in  what  she  had  to  do.  She  was 
never,  you  see,  out  of  touch  with  the  world  of  sense, 
and  he  practically  never  in  touch  wath  it  at  all. 
She  could  walk,  handfasted  with  him,  his  world  of 
dream;  but  he  never,  never,  her  world  of  sense. 
This  must  be  so — but  hitherto  she  had  always  fol- 
lowed him  into  dreams,  and  now  he  must  follow  her. 
Waking  while  he  slept,  she  turned  it  over  and  over 


THE  INVADING  SEED  149 

in  her  mind,  and  vowed  to  herself  how  gently  she 
would  guide  him  through  the  thorny  wastes. 

Into  this  paradise,  then,  invaded  by  the  pointed 
seed  J  came  young  Lord  Bendish  holding  out  hands 
of  adventure,  promising  greatly  of  England  and 
fine  fun  there.  He  had  made  himself  acceptable 
at  the  first  to  Poore;  as  time  went  on  Georgiana 
was  glad  enough  of  him  for  Poore's  sake.  On  her 
own  account  she  withheld  her  judgment,  which  was 
cool  and  shrewd  at  once,  and  based  upon  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  waking,  ostensible  world  far  more  thor- 
ough than  Poore's  had  ever  been  or  ever  could  be. 
Politics,  which  to  him  were  a  matter  of  high  theory, 
were  known  to  her  for  a  great  game,  passionately 
pursued  by  men  who  took  life  itself  and  everything 
in  it  as  a  gam.e.  She  had  been  the  wife  of  a  politi- 
cian since  she  left  the  schoolroom,  and  the  close 
friend  of  the  greatest  of  them  all.  She  had  met 
every  politician  in  England,  and  the  wives  of  them. 
Of  them  all  she  only  knew  one  who  took  the  business 
practically,  as  she  took  it  herself  (in  spite  of  high 
theory),  and  that  one  was  her  old  friend  the  Duke 
of  Devizes.  He  very  simply  said,  "This  country 
has  got  to  be  kept  going  in  the  face  of  Europe  and 
to  its  own  face.  The  job  is  difficult,  but  it  can  be 
done  if  everybody  minds  his  own  business.  There's 
no  room  for  theory,  which  means  that  some  people 
will  speculate  and  experiment  with  other  people's 
business.  That's  not  practical,  and  it's  not  sense. 
Let  them  dream  in  their  beds,  or  howl  to  the  stars, 


I50  BENDISH 

if  they  must,  on  their  roof-tops;  but  let  me  alone 
and  I'll  keep  England  going."  And  so  he  had  in 
his  plain  unemotional  way,  and  deep  in  her  heart 
Georgiana  felt  sure  that  he  had  done  rightly  and 
well.  She  loved  Gervase  entirely,  and  saw  him 
winged  and  irradiate,  a  seraph  soaring  the  upper 
air.  If  he  came  down  to  earth  what  could  happen 
to  him  but  battery  and  bruises? 

But  here  was  the  young  lord,  presently  flying 
an  avowedly  lower  level,  and  inviting  Gervase  to 
join  him  there  with  a  view  to  a  descent  upon  Eng- 
land. This  was  not  obvious  at  first;  at  first  poetry 
and  high  theory  seemed  his  only  care.  Great  even- 
ings were  spent  during  which  Gervase  thundered 
out  his  Vision  of  Argos,  or  staves  of  his  Roland, 
Bendish  rapt  at  his  feet  or  pacing  the  loggia  with  a 
light  tiptoe  restlessness  peculiar  to  him.  Or  Poore 
expounded  his  theory  of  poetry,  which  insisted 
rather  on  a  rhythm  of  picture  and  image  than  of 
music  and  melody,  and  Bendish  listened  attentively 
and  offered  but  few  objections.  He  seemed  con- 
tent to  be  disciple,  and  did  not  offer  to  contribute 
any  of  his  own  compositions  to  the  symposium.  I 
think  this  unwonted  frugality  of  his  must  be  attrib- 
uted rather  to  his  waning  interest  in  poetry,  than 
to  acknowledgment  that  Gervase  was  his  master. 
He  was  certainly  tending  to  something  more  tan- 
gible than  poetry,  and  gradually,  then,  during  long 
walks  which  the  pair  took  together,  the  stream  of 
debate  came  to  centre  about  politics,  and  Bendish's 
real  aims  were  to  be  discussed.     Georgiana  pres- 


THE  INVADING  SEED  151 

ently  saw  that  he  intended  for  leadership  of  men, 
and  to  be  a  breaker  rather  than  a  maker.  She 
seriously  doubted  whether  he  had  anything  to  make; 
but  it  seemed  as  if  Gervase  were  going  to  take  that 
for  granted. 

Both  these  young  men  were  agreed  that  the  Re- 
form Bill  was  little  to  the  purpose  except  as  a  handle 
for  revolt.  It  might  be  a  useful  housebreaker's 
tool.  Bendish  said,  "The  Duke  means  to  throw 
it  out  of  our  House.  It's  a  serious  question  whether 
anybody  should  try  to  stop  him." 

Gervase,  very  calm  at  the  moment,  with  the  calm- 
ness of  despair,  thought  that  he  should  be  let  alone. 
*'No  friend  of  liberty,"  he  said,  "can  wish  the  Re- 
form Bill  to  pass.  The  tyranny  of  the  shopkeepers 
will  be  infinitely  straiter  than  that  of  the  squires. 
It  will  be  a  steel  mill  for  a  millstone.  It  will  crush 
the  finer.  There  will  be  a  despotism  of  petty  facts 
instead  of  one  of  broad  principle.  As  things  are 
now,  every  right  of  man  is  defied,  truly;  but  under 
the  tradesmen's  House  of  Commons  every  law  of 
God  will  be  smothered.  I  had  rather  things  re- 
mained as  they  were." 

Bendish  objected — "No  man  can  look  on  tyranny 
unmoved.  If  we  break  one,  we  can  break  all.  We 
can  break  the  very  tradition  of  tyranny.  And  ac- 
quiescence in  tyranny  itself  has  become  a  habit. 
I  conceive  it  a  good  thing  to  break  that  down." 

Gervase  gloomed  on.  "How  do  you  think  to 
set  about  it?     What  is  your  plan?  " 


152  BENDISH 

"Roughly,  it  is  to  excite  public  feeling  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  human  endurance.  Then,  when 
the  Duke  disregards  that — as  he  will — let  the  Bill 
be  thrown  out  by  the  peers — and — " 

Gervase  was  watching  him  out  of  cavernous, 
smouldering  eyes.     "And — ?"  he  said. 

Bendish  leapt  to  his  height.  " — and  the  coun- 
try is  alight,"  he  said,  "and  the  torch  is  carried  from 
end  to  end." 

Gervase  nodded.  "Yes,  I  see  it.  All  goes  down 
in  fire  and  smoke — but  what  comes  out?  You  mean 
a  civil  war?" 

"I  mean  Revolt.      England  must  be  free." 

"France,"  Gervase  said,  "was  never  free — for  one 
moment." 

"We  learn  from  that.  We  will  have  no  Buona- 
parte— with  a  Waterloo  involved.  Or  if  we  have 
him,  he  too  will  have  learned." 

There  Gervase  was  with  him.  "I  think  that  cer- 
tain," he  said.  "No  one,  fit  to  be  a  leader  of  men, 
can  have  failed  to  see  that  Buonaparte  was  a  brig- 
and. If  the  world  can't  be  made  to  feel  that  it's 
better  to  make  one  man  than  to  kill  fifty,  I  shall 
despair  of  it.  But  I  don't  despair,  because  I  think 
the  thing  can  be  made  plain.  The  eternal  verities 
are  here,  all  about  us.  I  see  them  as  plainly  as  I 
see  you.  Can  I  not  open  the  eyes  of  men?  I  be- 
lieve that  I  can." 

"There  shall  be  an  Epic  of  Revolt,"  cried  Ben- 
dish — "and  you  shall  sing  it." 

"Not  so,"  said  the  other.     "An  epic  chants  a 


THE  INVADING  SEED  153 

thing  done.  It  is  the  Hymn  of  History.  We  need 
to  see,  not  to  remember.  Good  God,  let  us  forget 
all  that  we  can!  No,  no.  Let  there  be  a  Vision 
of  Revolt." 

"Qream  you,"  said  Bendish,  "and  sing  your 
dream;  and  I  will  serve  it."  Gervase  fell  into  a 
reverie  which  lasted  out  the  night.  Georgiana, 
busy  with  her  needle,  Hstened  and  judged.  From 
the  heights  where  love  and  motherhood  had  placed 
her  she  looked  down  compassionate  upon  the  antics 
of  men.  Bendish  too  sat  silent,  watching  her,  see- 
ing all  the  beauty  that  rayed  from  her  bent-down 
head  and  quiet  breast,  or  flashed  in  the  passes  of 
her  hand.  Presently,  however,  with  a  sigh  he  rose 
and  went  away  without  formalities  observed,  leav- 
ing Poore  engrossed  in  his  dream.  Georgiana  had 
to  sleep  alone — for  Poore  carried  his  dreams  out  with 
him,  and  walked  with  them  under  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"the  vision  of  revolt" 

I  don't  consider  The  Vision  of  Revolt — which  a 
scornful  critic  nicknamed  ''The  Hodgiad" — one  of 
Poore's  great  poems,  though  it  is  now  the  fashion 
to  praise  it.  It  has  many  of  his  sledge-hammer 
descriptions;  scenes  occur — one  Hghts  upon  them 
— which  seem  to  have  been  hacked  out  of  granite, 
and  terrifically  undercut.  These  things  are  usual 
in  his  poetry,  and  were  plainly  such  a  joy  to  him 
in  the  doing  that  he  could  never  resist  them,  how- 
ever much  he  would  have  gained  by  so  doing.  It 
is  impassioned,  it  is  sincere,  and  it  has  a  cumulative 
power  in  it  which  certainly  carries  one  on  beyond 
the  point  where  the  wave  itself  spends.  But,  per- 
sonally, I  much  prefer  his  Vision  of  an  Argos,  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been,  to  that  of  an  England 
which  will  never,  surely,  be  while  Englishmen  pay 
taxes  and  drink  beer.  Poore  was  essentially  an 
erotic  poet,  not  in  any  weak  or  unworthy  sense — 
for  his  Eros  was  Plato's  great  god,  or  Dante's, 
rather  than  the  lascivious  boy  of  the  Romans  or 
the  Elizabethan  young  rascal.  Love  to  him  was 
a  divine  madness,  sex  an  accident  and  not  a  cause. 
But  there  is  no  love- theme  in  The  Vision  of  Revolt, 

154 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  155 

and  very  little  love-imagery — except  the  scene  in 
the  garret : — 

Where  two  pale  lovers  breast  to  breast, 
Cling  to  each  other  beneath  the  moon; 
And  of  the  garret  make  a  nest 
Wherein  to  take  their  still  delight, 
And  in  their  rags  spell  out  their  rune — 

and  a  few  more  of  the  kind  where  the  love-imagery 
is  used  for  a  definite  purpose  of  showing  that  love, 
Hke  death,  makes  all  men  equal — except,  I  say,  for 
detached  passages  of  that  sort  love  is  not  the  theme 
of  the  poem. 

His  hero  is  Hodge,  the  EngHshman,  and  he  tracks 
him  from  the  Conquest  up  the  ages,  past  the  pres- 
ent and  into  the  future.  History  sweeps  by  like  a 
series  of  crimson  dreams;  Hodge  is  always  in  the 
foreground,  bending  to  his  field-work,  on  the  down 
with  his  sheep,  munching  his  bacon  under  the  hedge 
while  the  withering  northeaster  screams  through 
the  thorns,  and  earth  and  air  are  a  parched  drab — 
all  this  while  Norman  squadrons  and  Plantagenet 
bowmen,  Tudor  and  Stuart  Cavaliers,  Roundheads, 
Hanoverian  le\des,  conscripts  from  his  own  stock 
march  and  countermarch  across  the  scene.  It  is 
so  far  an  Epic  of  Endurance,  a  dumb  agony.  Lurid 
lights  play  about  this  earth-born  Prometheus — 
Black  Death,  Civil  War,  Lollardry,  witch-burning; 
Chaucer  sings  and  passes;  Spenser,  Marlowe,  Shake- 
speare strut  their  hours.  One  Cromwell  kills  a  God, 
another  kills  a  king;  Hodge  remains  bound  to  his 


156  BENDISH 

glebe,  eating  bacon,  working  all  day,  sleeping  like 
a  log,  loving  his  wife  on  Sunday  afternoons,  be- 
getting and  burying  children.  Masters  drive  him 
to  the  furrows,  kings  drive  him  into  battle,  priests 
bicker  over  his  soul,  the  parish  deals  with  his  body. 
But  he  remains  doggedly  in  touch  with  the  eternal 
things — in  a  way  not  possible  to  any  more  glit- 
tering co-tenant  of  his — Love,  Work,  and  God — 
and  because  of  his  foothold  there  he  is  immovable 
by  those  other  transient  phantoms,  and  remains 
the  same  while  they  change  and  pass.  Even  so  he 
bends  stolidly  to  his  tasks  and  holds  grimly  to  his 
instincts,  while  "thunder  from  France"  passes  over 
him,  and  while  Buonaparte,  the  arch- thief  and  king, 
picks  Europe's  pocket.  Triumphs  and  Dooms  of 
Kings  touch  him  not.  With  Waterloo  the  first  part 
ends — the  first  twelve  books  of  the  poem. 

The  rest  is  prophecy:  Hodge  is  to  be  seen  King 
of  England,  if  you  can  talk  of  kingship  where  every 
man  is  a  king.  Here  the  poet  is  vehement,  but 
shadowy.  The  sharper  his  words  bite,  the  less,  it 
seems  to  me,  have  they  to  bite  upon.  It  is  a  dream 
of  pure  Anarchy;  of  a  Golden  Age,  if  you  will — 
where  the  whole  world  is  Eden,  and  God  once  more 
walks  in  His  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  The 
great  Reform  Bill  naturally  plays  a  ver}^  small  part 
in  bringing  all  this  about,  as  you  may  imagine.  He 
keeps  that  well  in  focus.  That  is  a  remarkable 
fact;  for  writing  when  he  did,  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible not  to  see  the  Reform  agitation  distorted  out 
of  all  proportion.     But  several  steps  are  omitted; 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  157 

the  poem  gathers  in  swing  as  it  goes  on,  and  rather 
carries  you  with  it  on  a  flood  of  rhetoric  than  guides 
you  over  the  mountain  pass.  Once  surrender  your- 
self to  it  and  you  may  reach  the  poet's  goal,  some- 
what out  of  breath  and  with  a  bruise  here  and  there 
where  you  have  been  bumped  against  a  jutting  rock. 
If  you  try,  however,  any  of  your  school-strokes  of 
swimming,  you  mil  find  yourself  swept  into  an  eddy 
before  you  are  aware,  and  then  in  shoal  water  with 
your  knees  scraping  the  sand.  I  regret  that  I  can't 
give  a  better  analysis  of  Poore's  apocalypse,  but 
I  confess  that  I  don't  follow  it  all.  His  Epic  of 
EngUsh  History  I  admire — his  "Hodgiad"  in  fact. 
Hodge  is  a  fine  giant,  worthy  to  be  King — but  I 
should  like  to  know  how  he  reached  his  throne. 

The  composition  of  this  strange  and  vehement) 
of  this  savage  and  ruthless  poem,  as  swift  as  he 
himself  v/as  when  once  at  work,  occupied  Poore  the 
better  part  of  six  months.  During  a  great  part  of 
that  time  he  was  very  invisible  to  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren and  to  his  new  friend  Lord  Bendish.  He  dis- 
appeared directly  he  was  out  of  his  bed  and,  it  was 
believed,  betook  himself  to  the  hills  where  occa- 
sionally he  was  seen  ranging  level  places,  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  his  shoulders  thrust  forward,  his 
eyes  wild,  his  head  bare  to  the  sun.  Strange  boom- 
ings  came  from  him,  torrential  hummings,  occa- 
sionally savage  cries.  The  native  goatherds  crossed 
themselves  and  watched  him  in  apprehension  from 
behind  rocks.     He  took  no  food  with  him — but  was 


158  BENDISH 

sometimes  seen  to  drink  of  momitain  pools,  or  tarns, 
— and  returned  late  in  the  evening,  exhausted  but 
in  good  spirits,  still  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  to 
write  down,  with  a  red-hot  pen,  what  he  had  com- 
posed during  his  solitary  tramplings  of  the  wilds. 
He  ate  a  meal  of  minestra  and  vegetables,  drank 
two  glasses  of  wine  and  was  ready  for  work.  He 
wrote  furiously,  far  into  the  night,  then  tumbled  on 
to  his  bed  and  slept  like  a  log.  He  seemed  not  to 
be  aware  of  his  surroundings,  knew  not  his  lovers 
and  friends.  Georgiana  waited  on  him  closely,  dis- 
cerned every  need,  said  nothing,  watched  every- 
thing and  hoped  all  things.  She  was  anxious  to  go 
to  England;  she  had  the  Duke  on  her  conscience 
— but  nothing  could  be  done  while  the  fit  was  on 
her  husband.  And  this  was  a  fit  of  unusual  se- 
verity, and  had  one  unique  symptom,  which  was 
that  when  he  began  to  write,  he  went  to  work  with 
a  secrecy  quite  strange  to  him,  which  could  not 
suffer  that  a  soul  should  see  one  word  until  he  had 
emptied  himself  of  all.  She  knew  by  that  sign  that 
he  was  less  than  usually  absorbed  in  his  task  al- 
though knit  to  it,  by  force  of  will,  in  every  fibre  of 
his  body — for  by  ordinary  he  had  read  his  poems 
to  her  as  they  progressed,  and  had  asked,  and  some- 
times taken,  her  advice.  But  with  this  one  he  was 
strict  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  Georgiana,  whom 
love  had  made  divinely  intelligent,  suspected  the 
truth — which  was  that  he  doubted  of  her  agree- 
ment and  dared  not  prove  how  rightly  he  doubted. 
He  hoped,  certainly,  to  overwhelm  her  judgment 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  159 

by  the  momentum  of  the  whole  rushing  thing,  but 
would  not  risk  the  failure  of  a  part  of  it.  She  did 
not  resent  that,  but  she  had  a  sinking  of  the  heart 
whenever  she  remembered  it;  for  it  was  a  true  in- 
stinct in  him.  The  fact  was  that,  so  far  as  she  could 
guess  what  he  was  at,  she  did  not  approve  of  the 
project.  She  was  afraid  of  what  would  follow  it. 
Bendish,  she  had  seen,  was  for  practice  more  than 
theory.  She  disliked  Bendish  and  distrusted  him. 
She  knew  that  Gervase  was  not  fitted  for  politics, 
and  didn't  want  him  to  be.  The  Blessed  Isles 
towards  which  he  steered  every  barque  of  his  were 
never  to  be  compassed  by  politicians.  She  found 
herself  watching  the  lover  whom  she  admired  as 
much  as  adored  with  a  sickening  certainty  of  fail- 
ure and  loss  ahead  of  him. 

The  effect  of  Poore's  sudden  frenzy  of  compo- 
sition upon  his  vivacious  and  suggestive  friend  was 
rather  comic.  It  left  him  with  nothing  whatever 
to  do  in  the  matter.  He  was  rather  in  the  position 
of  a  hardy  rider  who  puts  his  blood-horse  at  a  stiff 
line  of  country — say,  stone  walls  and  water,  or  bare 
rolling  hiUs  with  deepish  bottoms  of  plough-land 
in  between  them.  The  noble  beast  sniffs  the  dan- 
ger through  his  red  nostrils,  pricks  his  thin  ears  and 
shakes  his  fine  small  head;  and  then,  as  a  prelim- 
inary to  action,  unseats  his  rider,  deposits  him  on 
the  turf,  and  leaps  forward  to  the  adventure.  So 
sat  Lord  Bendish  now  while  Gervase  careered  at 
large. 


l6o  BENDISH 

Another  thing  which  made  him  ill  at  ease  was 
that  Georgiana  took  no  particular  interest  in  him. 
There  was  a  polite  affectation  of  interest;  she  talked 
with  him,  walked  with  him  occasionally,  Ustened 
to  what  he  had  to  say  and  occasionally  laughed  at 
him.  In  fact,  she  was  not  at  all  uneasy  in  his 
company,  rather,  she  was  too  easy  by  half.  This 
was  new  to  his  experience.  He  began  to  desire  her 
extremely.  He  had  found  her  situation — as  the 
heroine  of  a  recent  scandal — and  her  person  alike 
provocative  of  most  romantic  inclinations.  He  was 
poet  enough  himself  to  see  that  she  was  rarely  beau- 
tiful, but  not  to  understand  that  it  was  really  her 
mind  which  transfigured  her  body.  He  had  not 
been  apt  to  suppose  that  women  had  minds  at  all; 
his  approaches  to  the  attack  had  been  of  the  usual 
kind,  therefore,  and  had  failed.  Not  only  had  he 
failed  but  the  lady  had  not  even  known  that  she 
was  beleaguered.  Assuredly  this  state  of  things 
must  be  altered  or  Bendish  would  have  to  admit 
his  own  failure. 

Georgiana  was  essentially  simple;  Bendish  was 
not  at  all  simple.  When  he  talked  to  her  about 
common  acquaintance  in  the  great  world  where  she 
had  once  played  a  conspicuous  part  he  had  credited 
her  with  all  sorts  of  complicated  feelings,  none  of 
which  she  had.  He  thought  that  she  would  hail 
him  thankfully  as  a  brilliant  reminder  of  what  she 
had  lost:  she  was  not  at  all  conscious  of  loss,  and 
did  not  observe  his  brilliancy.  He  had  built  much 
upon  that,  seeing  her  in  his  mind's  eye  cling  to  him 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  l6l 

that  she  might  get  back  something  of  the  grace 
which  had  been  hers.  Nothing  of  the  kind  oc- 
curred.    She  talked  of  the  K s  and  the  O s 

as  she  might  have  talked  of  the  Browns  and  the 
Robinsons;  she  seemed  to  have  no  historic  imagi- 
nation. She  dechned  to  be  treated  as  a  woman  of 
fashion,  she  did  not  swim  in  Bendish  as  in  her 
element. 

He  shoved  off  on  another  tack,  and  circled  about 
her.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  very  much  in 
love,  and  vowed  that  he  didn't  care  to  conceal  it. 
He  saw  her  every  day  and  thought  of  her  most  of 
the  night.  Verses  came  easily  to  him.  He  wrote 
of  her,  guardedly,  obliquely  at  first,  and  read  her 
what  he  had  done.  At  first  she  was  taken  in.  She 
thought  that  he  had  left  his  heart  in  England,  and 
w^ondered  what  kind  of  lady  had  attracted  this  but- 
terfly lord.  Presently,  however,  she  saw  that  he  was 
adoring  herself,  very  respectfully,  and  snug  in  her 
tower  of  strength  she  was  amused,  and  allowed  her- 
self to  be  interested.  It's  extraordinary  how  far  a 
woman,  deeply  and  safely  in  love,  deeply  and  abid- 
ingly beloved,  can  afford  to  let  another  man  go. 
Georgiana  in  this  may  be  blamed  by  some,  but 
never  by  me.  Love  with  women  is  a  permanent 
possession  and  defence — it  is  at  once  treasure  and 
treasure-house.  Nothing  can  touch  it,  nothing  de- 
preciate it.  Indeed,  tribute  from  another  height- 
ens its  value.  So  this  beautiful,  watchful,  critical 
woman  went  about  her  ordinary  business,  and  left 
her  heart  with  her  Gervase  in  his  mountains  or  at 


l62  BENDISH 

his  desk,  while  with  a  wary  and  amused  eye  she 
watched  Lord  Bendish  at  his  antics. 

Words,  words,  words!  And  very  pretty  words 
they  were — tender,  glowing  with  sentiment,  shghtly 
rococo,  very  insincere,  but  as  complimentary  as  you 
please.  This  went  on  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  and 
then  there  came  a  day  when  he  was  at  her  feet, 
with  her  hand  at  his  lips.  "0  you  are  beautiful! 
Pity  me,  I  die!"  That  kind  of  thing — by  a  seat 
in  a  myrtle  thicket. 

That  was  a  panting  moment.  She  was  pale  and 
very  quiet,  having  quickly  regained  her  hand. 

"I  think  you  are  forgetting.  Lord  Bendish." 

"I  forget  God  when  I  see  you — ."  He  was  still 
on  his  knees. 

But  she  was  dry.  "You  forget  me  too,  I  think. 
Please  to  get  up." 

"What,"  he  cried,  "may  I  not  hope—?"  He 
could  not  take  defeat. 

She  sickened  of  him  in  a  moment.  "Ah,  you 
may  hope — for  honesty,"  she  said,  and  left  him. 
He  was  deeply  mortified,  and  never  forgave  her. 
Had  she  been  honest  with  him?  He  felt  that  she 
had  led  him  on,  which  was  not  true.  She  had  let 
him  go  on,  which  is  a  different  thing — but  he  couldn't, 
or  wouldn't,  see  that,  and  came  in  time  to  hate  her. 

Meantime  he  withdrew  to  his  house — for  he  had 
taken  a  great  house  at  Porto  Fino  and  kept  state 
there — and  was  no  more  seen  at  the  villa.  But 
this  was  for  a  very  short  time.  Presently — seeing 
that  Poore  was  invisible,  and  Poore's  wife  only  too 


*'THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  163 

visible,  going  about  the  business  of  the  house  as  if 
nothing  had  happened — he  took  to  the  road,  leav- 
ing word  that  he  should  return,  and  lumbered  into 
Italy,  where  I  propose  to  leave  him.  Genoa,  Milan, 
Florence,  Rome,  Venice,  heard  of  him.  Many  dis- 
tractions assailed  him;  but  it  is  to  be  said  that  he 
remained  clear  in  his  impressions  of  Gervase  Poore 
and  a  common  enthusiasm.  He  could  not  think 
of  Georgiana  without  disgust,  but  he  was  honestly 
an  admirer  of  her  husband's  genius — and  as  such  he 
saw  Italy  through  Poore's  eyes,  put  like  glasses  upon 
his  own.  He  saw  it  too,  I  must  go  on  to  say,  "in 
character."  Italy  posed  for  him,  but  not  before  he 
had  ardently  posed  for  Italy. 

Italy  moved  him  very  much.  He  became  a 
tourist,  firstly  to  distract  himself,  but  soon  because 
he  was  genuinely  interested.  He  saw  everything, 
read,  thought,  grew  excited.  His  thoughts  became 
winged  words.  He  returned  to  his  design  of  a 
Poem,  rehandled  his  notes,  reshaped  them,  got  bit- 
ten and  began.  He  wrote  fluently,  and  was  elated 
by  what  he  wrote.  The  thing  grew  under  him. 
It  was  The  Wanderer.  Now  it  is  hardly  necessary 
at  this  stage  to  say  of  The  Wanderer  that  it  is  con- 
cerned much  more  with  the  writer  than  with  the 
places  in  which  he  wandered.  Let  that  be  so,  if 
he  had  left  it  at  that  his  fame  would  have  suffered, 
perhaps — and  perhaps  that  is  all  we  need  be  con- 
cerned about  now.  But  he  did  not.  He  was,  of 
course,  inherently  a  rhetorician.  He  did  not  feel 
so  much  as  know  what  others  might  be  made  to 


1 64  BENDISH 

feel.  But  any  stick  will  do  to  beat  a  dog  with,  and 
any  art — even  cookery — may  be  a  vent  for  the  va- 
pours. Here,  then,  his  sense  of  rhetoric  told  him 
that  there  must  be  a  motive — a  causa  causans,  and 
being  the  young  man  he  was,  the  only  possible  mo- 
tive for  so  much  passionate  discomfort  in  the  pres- 
ence of  nature  must  be  a  woman.  Therefore  a 
woman  looms  malefic  in  the  Wanderer's  page;  and 
I  will  do  The  Wanderer  this  much  credit,  as  to  say 
that  he  had  not  the  slightest  notion  how  bitten-in 
as  with  vitriol  her  portrait  is.  He  was  smarting, 
of  course,  from  a  recent  encounter;  she  was  fresh 
upon  his  mind;  his  wounds  were  raw,  gaping  at 
the  edges.  She  might  have  been  Lady  Ann,  she 
might  have  been  poor  Rose;  but  she  happened  to 
be  Mrs.  Poore.  Therefore  Mrs.  Poore  is  the  "care- 
worn Circe"  of  The  Wanderer,  whose  malignant 
wiles  gave  so  much  satisfaction  to  the  noble  victim 
of  them  that  he  really  might  have  come  to  be  grate- 
ful to  her  for  inflicting  upon  him  woes  which  could 
be  so  luxuriously  healed.  I  doubt  if  Bendish  ever 
enjoyed  himself  so  much  as  when  in  Rome,  Flor- 
ence, Naples,  and  Venice,  he  was  seeing  himself  a 
victim  to  a  false,  beautiful,  and  ruthless  woman. 
Rhetorical  fiction!  That  may  be — but  The  Wan- 
derer remains  to  testify  to  a  bleeding  heart.  And 
next  to  having  a  bleeding  heart  in  being,  to  have 
had  one  is  still  food  for  your  rhetorician;  and  next 
to  that  again,  no  doubt,  is  to  think  that  you  have 
had  one.  Be  all  this  as  it  may  for  the  moment. 
The  Wanderer  pleased  its  noble  author  at  the  time, 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  165 

and  fully  occupied  his  time,  without  removing  at 
all  from  his  mind  his  dream  that  he  might  become 
a  leader  of  men.  It  served  his  purpose,  which  was 
to  rid  him,  as  by  phlebotomy,  of  a  fever;  and  when 
he  had  written  himself  out  he  felt  better,  and  re- 
turned with  zest  to  his  ambitious  reveries.  Re- 
turned to  Rapallo  in  the  late  autumn,  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  his  verses.  Georgiana  Httle  knew 
how  near  she  had  gone  to  accompHshing  the  de- 
sire of  her  heart.  If  Gervase  had  not  finished  his 
"Hodgiad"  when  he  did,  and  had  not  rekindled  in 
Bendish  the  fire  he  had  got  from  him,  the  young 
lord  had  gone  home  to  England  and  these  pages 
never  been  devoted  to  him.  But  she  neither  knew 
nor  cared.  Bendish,  once  out  of  her  house,  did  not 
exist  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  He  had  made 
love  to  her,  it  is  true;  but  wantonly,  she  judged, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  field  had  been  open 
to  him.  There  had  been  no  hedges  to  break;  the 
field  lay  wide  to  the  road.  He  had  looked  at  it  in 
passing.  It  was  fuU  of  flowers,  smelt  of  honey; 
but  they  were  wWd  flowers,  not  worth  plucking. 
She  thought  him  a  fopling  and  forgot  him.  She 
was  bored,  but  not  at  all  disturbed  by  his  reap- 
pearance. 

Just  as  easily  as  she  had  forgotten  him,  so  did 
he  forget  his  poem,  and  that  she  had  been  the  rea- 
son of  it;  but  he  had  not  at  aU  renounced  his  ambi- 
tions. He  still  saw  his  way  to  poHtical  adventure, 
and  indeed  had  maintained  throughout  his  travel 
an  extensive  correspondence  with  England,  which 


1 66  BENDISH 

assured  him  of  it.  The  country  was  full  of  unease; 
the  excitement  of  the  centre  was  fervent,  but  at  the 
circumference  explosive.  England  was  like  a  boil- 
ing pot  which  seethes  and  heaves  in  the  midst,  and 
at  the  edges  breaks  into  bubbles.  Bendish  had  let- 
ters from  all  parts  of  the  country,  and  invited  more 
by  the  answers  he  wrote.  So  far  as  he  could  judge, 
the  times  were  ripe  for  revolution,  and  nothing  now 
was  wanting  but  a  born  leader  of  men  to  set  a  host 
flooding  the  country  like  a  tidal  wave — that  had 
been  his  own  figure  when  he  was  setting  Poore  afire, 
and  as  he  spoke  it  he  had  seen  himself  on  its  crest. 

He  had  his  manifesto  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 
If  Georgiana  had  encouraged  him  ever  so  Httle  it 
would  have  been  in  England  by  this  time;  for  Ben- 
dish  was  that  kind  of  man  who  responds  imme- 
diately to  opinion,  and  is  a  good  poet  if  you  beheve 
him  to  be  one — or  a  good  anything  else.  As  it  was, 
however,  she  had  chilled  him,  and  he  had  to  wait 
for  Gervase  Poore,  who  didn't  fail  him,  though  he 
very  nearly  did. 

Just  in  time,  as  it  happened,  Poore  appeared  be- 
fore him,  some  weeks  after  his  return  to  Porto  Fino 
— haggard  but  illuminated  by  inner  fire.  The  two 
poets  sprang  together. 

Poore  said,  "My  poem  is  done.  You  shall  come 
and  hear  me " 

"Let  us  have  it  now,"  said  Bendish,  "and  then 
we'll  dine  and  discuss  our  plans." 

Poore  looked  troubled — and  was  troubled.  "I 
think  I  will  ask  you  to  come  to  us.     I  wish  Gina 


"THE  VISION  OF  REVOLT"  167 

to  hear  me  too — I  trust  to  her  judgment.  We 
ought  to  have  that " 

Bendish,  having  no  further  use  for  Mrs.  Poore, 
said  plainly,  "A  man  writes  for  men,  unless  he  is 
writing  about  love — and  then  he  writes  for  women. 
But  as  you  will.  Women  don't  like  politics.  They 
distrust  its  power  over  men." 

Gervase  was  not  in  arms  for  his  wife.  He  was 
too  much  absorbed  for  that.  But  he  considered 
the  proposition,  dreaming  over  it,  searching  the  blue 
spaces  of  the  sea. 

"My  wife  is  not  a  woman,  I  think,"  was  his 
conclusion;  "she's  a  spirit  in  person.  She  reminds 
me  of  a  flame  in  a  lantern.    Let  us  go  to  her." 

Bendish  shrugged.  "By  all  means.  Let  us  go 
to  your  lantern  and  tend  the  flame.  But  she  won't 
like  this  kind  of  oil,  you'll  find." 

"She  will  like  what  is  true  in  it,"  said  Gervase, 
stiU  in  his  dream.     So  then  they  set  out. 

She  saw  them  coming  up  the  road  from  the  sea 
with  the  level  rays  of  the  declining  sun  upon  them. 
Her  poet,  taller  than  his  companion,  was  bareheaded; 
even  at  that  distance,  so  weU  she  knew  him,  she 
could  guess  at  his  mood  of  intense,  silent  exaltation. 
Lord  Bendish  walked  beside  him,  very  upright,  very 
stiff  in  the  head,  very  much  the  little  great  man, 
as  she  judged  him  in  her  strong  distrust.  She  bore 
him  no  grudge  for  his  behaviour  to  herself,  naturally 
— for  no  woman  ever  does.  But  she  feared  his 
friendship  with  Gervase,  and  wished  him  miles  away. 


i68  BENDISH 

The  day,  which  had  been  one  of  scirocco,  hot  and 
still,  was  making  a  thundery  close.  Copper-edged 
masses  of  cloud  hung  upon  the  sea;  distant  build- 
ings— a  church-tower,  a  lighthouse,  the  Castle  on 
its  rocks — stared  paper-white.  She  herself  was  in 
a  nervous  mood,  and  wide-eyed  for  supernatural 
warnings.  Even  as  she  stood  fixedly  watching,  with 
eyelids  smarting  at  the  strain  she  put  upon  them, 
an  omen  flashed  across  the  scene:  two  long- winged 
hawks  swept  before  her  in  flight,  dipping,  turning, 
rocking  as  they  flew,  fighting  and  wrangling  together. 
They  closed  with  shrill  chattering,  their  wings  beat 
each  other;  then  they  parted,  and  one  wheeled 
upwards,  towered  and  sped  to  the  sea — the  other 
dipped  to  the  earth  and  flew  Umpingly  into  the  hills. 

While  she  was  trembling  under  the  excitement 
of  this,  the  two  men  were  at  the  gate. 

Lord  Bendish  saluted  her  with  a  flourish.  "Fair 
lady,  I  bring  you  your  poet  to  be  crowned." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  kissed  in  courtly 
fashion.  He  was  in  high  spirits,  not  at  all  traitor 
to  his  secret  resentment.  For  if  she  bore  no  grudge, 
he  did.  He  both  hated  and  despised  and  feared 
her.  His  whole  personal  force  was  in  the  scale  to 
sky  her  up  to  the  beam. 


:  CHAPTER  XV 

THE  BLOOD-PACT 

They  supped,  the  three  of  them,  almost  in  si- 
lence. There  was  a  tension  upon  each.  Bendish 
was  involved  heart  and  soul  in  political  dreamings. 
His  travels,  his  poem,  his  discomfiture  were  all  for- 
got. For  some  reason  or  another  he  counted  greatly 
upon  the  support — or  opportunity — which  Poore  was 
about  to  afford  him.  Nothing  else,  at  the  moment, 
seemed  to  matter.  Poore  himself  hardly  ate  any- 
thing, and  nearly  all  the  time  had  his  wife's  hand 
in  his  beneath  the  table-cloth.  He  had  the  sense 
of  returning,  his  sheaves  with  him.  He  was  free, 
deep-breathing  from  his  labour  of  six  months.  If 
his  head  was  not  upon  her  bosom,  his  mind  was. 
As  for  her,  she  made  much  of  his  hand,  for  she  knew 
what  such  testimonies  meant  in  his  case  who  was 
prodigal  of  them,  and  entirely  careless  of  outside 
judgments  when  his  mind  was  free.  He  had  indeed 
freed  it  of  its  burden  now,  and  was  all  for  returning 
to  her  heart  and  side.  So  she  saw,  and  knew  that 
the  night  would  bring  the  renewing  of  their  loves. 
But  she  dreaded  the  ordeal  that  was  first  to  come, 
feehng  it  a  bad  sign  that  he  had  been  so  secret  over 
his  work,  knowing  almost  certainly  that  he  mis- 
doubted of  her  judgment.     But  ah,  she  told  herself, 

169 


I70  BENDISH 

he  need  not!  Did  he  not  know  how  utterly  she 
loved,  how  utterly  she  had  merged  and  drowned 
herself  in  him?  Her  hand  nestled  in  his  palm,  she 
laughed  softly  to  herself  as  she  thought,  O  foolish, 
noble,  godlike  Gervase  who  could  suspect  her  of 
disloyalty!  But  all  that  was  over  now,  for  he  had 
come  back,  and  had  her  hand. 

After  supper  he  asked  to  see  the  children  abed, 
and  she  took  him  to  them.  Bendish  sat  on  alone 
over  his  wine,  malignly  smihng.  Children!  They 
remained  away  nearly  half  an  hour.  Bendish  timed 
them. 

Then  under  the  lamp  the  reading  began,  went 
through  and  was  not  done  till  past  midnight.  Geor- 
giana,  in  white,  in  a  shadowed  corner,  motionless, 
her  chin  in  her  thin  hand;  Bendish  at  the  table, 
his  elbows  upon  it,  his  eyes  astare,  darkly  revolv- 
ing fate  and  doom;  Poore  standing  to  the  light,  a 
savage  reader,  gnashing  consonants  as  if  he  hated 
them. 

I  find  it  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  this  ex- 
traordinary historical  poem  which  so  reverses  the 
adjustments  of  History  that  Magna  Carta  drops 
clean  out,  and  the  coming  of  the  Friars  Minor  is 
made  more  of  than  the  exploits  of  the  Black  Prince. 
It  is  perhaps  too  much  to  say  that  the  weather  and 
the  revolving  of  the  seasons  count  for  more  in  it 
than  the  Armada  or  Marlborough's  campaigns,  or 
Waterloo;  but  it  is  certain  that  these  and  the  Hke 
great  events  are  sometimes  lost  sight  of,  while  the 
motions  of  the  sun  and  moon  never  are.     From  his 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  171 

point  of  view  these  things  are  as  they  should  be. 
Given  his  point  of  view,  Poore  has  got  his  values 
exactly  right;  and  that  is  his  crowning  achievement 
in  the  first  part  of  his  book.  The  shocks  and  pound- 
ings of  history  have  just  such  a  dim  and  distant  sound 
upon  the  ear  as  the  rumour  of  the  events  themselves 
may  have  had  upon  the  pastoral  folk  who  lived 
through  them.  There  is  a  harsher,  more  sinister, 
more  insistent  rumour,  the  burden  of  Hodge  at  his 
servitude : 

The  under-current  to  the  drums, 

The  burden  which  the  trampling  men 

And  shrilling  trvmipets  drown  in  vain — 

For  still  from  loom  and  yard  it  hums, 

And  still  you  hear  it  far  afield, 

And  down  the  hillside  still  it  comes.  .  .  . 

Hodge  afield,  abed  and  at  board  is  his  hero.  You 
see  the  fellow  grow  as  you  listen.  He  gets  your 
conviction.  For  good  or  iU,  at  the  end  you  have 
a  man  before  you — a  man  with  whom,  as  you  have 
made  him,  you  will  soon  have  to  reckon.  You  have 
him  whole:  such  as  he  is  you  have  seen  him  grow; 
such  as  you  know  him  now,  you  can  guess  what 
work  he  is  likely  to  make. 

Your  first  impression  is  one  of  strangeness.  Yet 
there  are  great  beauties  in  the  poem — homely  pic- 
tures, pastoral  scenes,  landscape  pieces  inset,  gleams 
of  blue  sky  and  sunlit  hillsides  seen  through  rents 
in  the  murk  or  rolling  cloud.  And  hope  is  never 
quite  absent,  nor  pride,  nor  the  triumph  of  pride: — 


172  BENDISH 

They  shall  perish,  but  thou  endure; 

Yea,  like  a  garment  they  wax  old; 

Thou  shalt  change  them  like  a  vesture, 

But  thou  art  the  same,  thy  years  untold; 

And  thy  children's  children  shall  hold 

The  land  whereon  thou  wast  bought  and  sold.  .  .  . 

So  far  he  carried  Georgiana  with  him.  She  was 
thrilled,  she  was  proud,  she  was  happy.  He  read 
these  messages  in  her  eyes,  but  was  too  much  moved 
himself  to  need  them  then.  Of  the  three  people 
concerned  he  carried  conviction  most  deeply  into 
himself.  He  became  his  hero  incarnate,  but  magni- 
iied  by  the  height  and  depth  of  his  own  inspiration. 
He  felt  in  his  own  person  the  huge  blundering  pro- 
tagonist of  his  drama.  And  as  such  he  began  im- 
mediately upon  the  Second  Part. 

Here  he  becomes  prophetic  and  foretells  the  revo- 
lution which  will  throne  Hodge  upon  the  seat  of 
our  foreign  kings.  No  time  is  specified  for  this 
event,  and  none  of  the  exact  means  by  which  it  is 
to  be  done.  There  is  nothing  of  Mother  Shipton 
about  his  Vision  of  Revolt.  He  does  not  anticipate 
steam  traction  or  electric  telegraph.  He  seems  to 
foresee  a  gradual  rage  rising  very  far  off  against 
parliamentary  government,  rolling  hke  a  wave  to- 
wards Westminster  and  finally  crashing  upon  it  and 
swallowing  it  up.  He  writes  of  "waves  of  men, 
league  upon  league."  There  is  no  bloodshed;  ap- 
parently the  tyrants  and  their  symbols,  kings  and 
their  sceptres,  bishops  and  their  crosiers,  parlia- 
ments and  armies — all  simulacra  of  authority — go 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  173 

down  without  a  struggle.  Parliamentary  govern- 
ment is  swept  aw^ay;  folk-moots  are  restored;  there 
is  a  Cormnittee  of  Public  Weal;  the  land  is  resumed 
and  parcelled  out  among  the  people;  local  govern- 
ment is  strengthened — he  sees  beyond  the  county 
into  the  parish;  the  parish  is  autonomous  in  local 
affairs.  Taxation  is  voluntary,  a  matter  of  personal 
and  local  honour.  He  expects,  in  fact,  a  general 
enhghtenment  and  then  a  sudden  illumination  which 
is  irresistible.  It  is  easy  to  travel  when  you  see 
the  way.  I  am  inclined  to  see  an  anticipation  of 
the  power  of  the  Strike  in  one  passage : — 

And  the  War  of  Waiting  and  standing  still, 

Fighting  famine  without  a  cry, 

Broad- spread  battle  from  hill  to  hill — 

As  if  a  man  in  his  own  blood 

Should  crown  his  foe,  and  hold  on  high 

His  own  heart  for  an  oriflamme, 

And  see  the  rally  before  he  die.  .  .  . 

What  else  can  that  mean?  He  has  a  great  passage 
upon  the  Rights  of  Man  which  I  should  like  to 
quote,  but  do  not.  He  ends  with  a  vision  of  Eng- 
land held  by  Englishmen.  Hodge  stands  upon  a 
hill,  where  in  the  beginning  we  saw  him  crouching 
from  the  wind,  and  gazes  over  England — fold  upon 
fold  of  it,  softly  gray  and  green. 

Tilth  and  pasture  and  farm-steading, 

White  villages,  red-roofed  towns. 

Grey  manors  in  folds  of  the  downs.  .  .  . 


174  BENDISH 

The  land  is  his  to  possess  it,  enriched  by  his 
bones  for  two  thousand  years,  and  bought  with  his 
blood.  Here,  as  on  his  throne,  we  leave  King  Hodge, 
and  the  old  song  with  whose  first  stave  The  Vision 
began,  closes  it  with  its  last : — 

The  shepherd  upon  the  hill  was  laid, 
The  dog  to  his  girdle  was  taid; 
He  had  not  slept  but  a  little  braid 
But  Gloria  in  Excelsis  was  to  him  said. 

Ut  hoy! 
For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy! 

When  he  had  done,  he  sat  trembling,  while  Ben- 
dish  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"By  God,  Poore,  we  ought  to  sweep  the  country 
with  it.    If  we  fail  we  fail.    But  I  can't  think  it." 

Poore  said,  "It's  a  cause  to  die  for.  Many  a 
man  will  die  before  these  things  come  about." 

"Well,"  Bendish  said,  "I  am  ready.  Let  us  be- 
gin when  you  please.  I  am  for  England  to-morrow. 
Entrust  me  that  and  it  shall  be  printed  by^  the  time 
you  arrive." 

Poore,  without  another  word,  gave  it  into  his 
hands.    Bendish  lifted  it  to  his  forehead. 

"  The  new  Gospel,"  he  said.  "  In  hoc  signo  vinces ! " 

Georgiana  sat  on  white  and  motionless.  She  felt 
as  if  Hfe  was  behind  her.  But  Bendish  went  on, 
gathering  rhetoric  as  he  went. 

"Brother,"  he  said,  "I  shall  serve  under  you,  and 
devote  myself  and  my  fortunes  to  your  work.  I 
am  entirely  of  your  mind,  and  have  no  will  but 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  175 

yours.  Let  us  make  no  plans  yet — it  is  too  soon. 
Ways  will  come,  and  chances;  and  the  men  to  take 
them.  Meantime  let  you  and  me  swear  brotherhood. 
If  you  will  take  me  under  you  I  shall  be  proud  to 
serve." 

"I'll  take  any  true  man,"  Poore  said,  "and  you 
first  of  all."  He  was  entirely  serious,  and  did  not 
take  his  eyes  off  Bendish.  He  had  not  looked  at 
Georgiana  once  since  he  ended  the  Second  Part  of 
the  poem. 

Bendish  had  gone  to  the  sideboard  and  picked  up 
a  wine-glass.  In  it  he  poured  wine  till  it  was  half 
full.  He  brought  that  forward  now  and  put  it  be- 
side them  on  the  table.  Then  he  pulled  a  short 
dagger  from  the  sheath  at  his  belt,  and  showed  it  to 
the  light.  His  eyes  glittered  as  he  concentrated  his 
gaze  upon  it. 

"A  sacrament  of  fellowship,"  he  said,  with  a  half 
laugh;  but  he  was  very  pale.  Gervase  watched 
him,  frowning,  Bendish  pulled  up  the  sleeve  of  his 
right  arm,  and  held  it  over  the  glass.  He  stuck  the 
point  of  the  dagger  suddenly  into  his  flesh,  then 
dropped  it  and  squeezed  his  arm.  Two  or  three 
drops  of  blood  fell  into  the  wine.  He  looked  brightly 
at  Gervase,  who  suddenly  rose,  pulled  back  his 
sleeve  and  held  his  arm  over  the  glass.  Bendish 
drew  near,  held  his  arm  and  looked  at  it.  Gervase 
watched  him,  still  frowning,  and  did  not  flinch  when 
he  drove  in  the  point.  His  blood  flowed  into  the 
glass.  Georgiana  sat  as  one  turned  to  stone.  Ben- 
dish raised  the  glass. 


176  BENDISH 

"To  the  Rights  of  Man,"  he  said,  and  drank,  and 
handed  on  the  glass. 

Poore  held  it,  but  said  nothing  audible;  he  looked 
at  his  wife,  hesitation  in  his  looks.  Bendish  was 
watching  with  glittering  eyes.  Georgiana  had  turned 
very  white.  She  saw  the  glass,  she  saw  her  husband's 
intention,  she  knew  that  he  called  her — she  could 
not  do  it.  She  was  at  the  moment  the  slave  of  her 
judgment.  Her  love  called  upon  her — her  judgment 
did  not  approve.  She  turned  away  her  head,  as  it 
seemed  to  her  by  superhuman  effort.  Then  Poore 
without  another  effort  upon  her  drained  the  glass. 
The  deed — some  deed — was  done.  Things  between 
her  and  her  lover  could  never  again  be  as  they  had 
been  before.     Bendish  had  intervened. 

To  her  the  act  was  symbolical;  there  was  nothing 
left  for  her  to  do,  but  as  she  did.  Her  head  ached, 
and  her  heart  was  sick  unto  death.  She  got  up, 
saying  that  she  would  go  to  bed.  Gervase,  suddenly 
aware  of  her,  said,  "Yes,  yes,  go,  my  love.  It's 
very  late  and  we  have  much  still  to  talk  of."  He 
was  very  kind,  with  his  hand  on  her  shoulder;  but 
she  felt  an  alien.  She  Ufted  him  her  face — he  kissed 
her  cold  lips.  Then  without  a  word  she  left  the 
room.  Bendish  held  the  door  open  for  her  and 
bowed  her  out.  Then  he  shut  it  agam  upon  him- 
self and  her  husband. 

The  one  thought  she  had  as  she  undressed  herself 
was,  "This  evening — ^before  all  this  began — he  was 
mine.     He  took  me — he  was  all  mine.     When  he 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  177 

came  home  I  saw  it  in  his  eyes,  that  he  was  mine 
and  wanted  me,  I  gave  him  my  hand — he  knew, 
he  knew.  Then  he  brought  me  here,  and  took  me. 
Never,  never  again,  my  heart!  But  then  you  were 
mine!"  What  had  happened  since,  exactly  what 
had  happened  she  could  not  now  examine.  She  had 
neither  the  heart  nor  the  head;  but  it  was  most  cer- 
tain that  the  ceremony  decreed  by  Bendish  had  cut 
a  definite  trench  between  Gervase  and  her.  She 
didn't  reaHse  that  Bendish  had  intended  that  it 
should,  had  been  inspired  to  it  by  his  instinct  to 
work  against  her;  she  thought  that,  in  fact,  Ger- 
vase had  cut  it  himself,  that  he  had  been  digging  as 
he  read.  As  for  the  poem,  she  admired  it.  It  was 
Gervase's  heart's  blood:  of  course  she  admired  it. 
It  was  not  that  she  couldn't  follow  his  thought,  or 
not  see  the  fineness  of  it;  not  that  she  hadn't  been 
moved  by  it,  or  cried  to  herself.  Ah,  if  these  things 
could  be!  Not  at  all.  As  a  song  it  made  her  blood 
sting  her.  But  she  knew  Gervase;  she  knew  his  fac- 
ulty for  identif}dng  himself  with  what  he  imagined. 
He  would  go  leaping  out,  after  his  poem,  into  the 
world.  And  of  course  it  was  all  hopeless,  all  utterly 
absurd.  If  he  took  his  poetry  into  the  world,  to 
live  and  get  it  Uved — she  couldn't  follow  him.  A 
sense  of  futihty  would  clog  her  feet.  And  he  would 
do  it,  she  knew;  and  she  must  watch  and  agonise. 

Standing  by  her  open  window,  peering  wide-eyed 
into  the  night,  she  prayed  for  him,  but  without  con- 
viction. She  was  fearful  of  letting  herself  go  even 
under  the  starry  brows  of  her  God.    Then  she  laid 


1 78  BENDISH 

herself  beside  her  sleeping  boy,  not  daring  to  enter 
again  that  bed  where  so  lately  she  had  been  as  a 
bride.  She  fell  into  a  troubled  doze,  tossing  herself 
about,  throwing  out  her  arms;  but  she  was  deep 
when  he  came  to  her  in  the  gray  of  the  morning 
hours. 

She  was  right  in  her  certainty  that  Poore  was  that 
dangerous  kind  of  poet  to  whom  the  fictions  of  his 
heart  and  brain  are  facts.  He  was  an  ideaUst  of  the 
most  naked  kind,  an  enthusiast,  of  the  stuff  of 
martyrs,  a  dangerous  man.  What  to  Bendish  was 
a  safety-valve  for  his  vitality,  to  him  was  mere  light 
and  air.  Having  once  stated  Revolution,  it  became 
a  Ufe-and-death  matter  to  him.  He  saw  nothing 
else  soHd  in  a  world  of  dreams.  But,  that  assump- 
tion once  granted  him,  he  was  very  practical. 

He  said  to  Bendish,  "This  poem  will  never  reach 
the  people  whom  you  and  I  have  to  work  with,  but 
there's  a  chance  that  it  will  reach  those  who  can 
best  reach  them.  Let  schoohnasters  have  it,  and 
ministers  of  religion;  get  it  into  debating-clubs; 
let  any  workman  who  can  read  have  a  chance  of 
seeing  it.  It  is  not  a  thing  for  the  reviews:  those 
who  read  reviews  are  convinced  already  that  I  am 
a  proper  object  for  the  gallows.  We  gain  nothing 
by  having  it  burnt  by  the  common  hangman.  Re- 
member that  our  revolution  must  come  through  men 
who  do  not  vote,  and  can't  hope  to  vote  for  another 
hundred  years.  The  Reform  Bill  will  pass,  no  doubt, 
within  a  Httle  time.     If  it  does,  our  work  will  be  the 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  179 

harder.  If  it  does  not,  which  is  what  I  pray  for, 
we  shall  gain  by  the  discontent  its  rejection  pro- 
duces. We  shall  have  to  speak  at  election  meet- 
ings— but  we  must  always  speak  beyond  the  elector- 
ate. We  have  to  convince  the  serfs,  not  the  free 
men.  It's  the  rick-burners  to  whom  we  must  go, 
not  the  town-burners.  It's  not  going  to  be  done 
within  our  Ufetime.  These  people  have  been  cowed 
for  a  thousand  years.  They  have  the  suspicion  of 
hunted  beasts:  they  will  suspect  you  and  me.  I 
see  clearly  that  you  are  sanguine  of  something  sud- 
den. My  friend,  if  you  can't  be  patient  and  work 
for  your  grandchildren  you  had  better  not  work  at 
all.  Don't  you  realise  where  we  stand?  We  are 
still  ruled  by  your  Norman  robbers;  but  between 
them  and  the  EngHsh  there's  another  great  class, 
more  timid,  more  selfish,  more  obstinate  than 
themselves.  A  revolution — the  first  revolution — will 
bring  them  to  the  top  inevitably.  The  Reform 
Bill  will  perhaps  do  that.  Then  our  work  will 
begin.  We  must  have  manhood  suffrage,  annual 
parliaments,  the  ballot  before  we  can  hope  for  an- 
other parliamentary  revolution.  But  I  still  hope 
we  can  avoid  that.  If  the  Duke  rejects  Reform,  I 
still  hope  we  can  make  that  sort  of  reform  out  of 
the  question." 

Bendish  Ustened  and  said  httle,  but  his  brain  was 
on  fire.  He  was  at  his  favourite  trick  of  imagining 
ovations.  He  saw  the  breakfast  table  of  Holland 
House  husht  while  he  thundered  out  Epics;  he  saw 
old  Rogers  working  his  sour  gums  together,  grudging 


i8o  BENDISH 

the  admiration  which  was  forced  out  of  him.  He 
heard  Tom  Moore's  shouts  of  rapture.  '  He  saw  the 
House  of  Lords — rows  of  pale  faces  waiting  on  his 
words.  ...  "I  shall  start  to-morrow,"  he  told  Ger- 
vase,  then  added,  "It  will  make  people  stare,  to 
have  me  at  this  work." 

"That  can't  be  helped,"  Gervase  said. 

"It  may  do  good."  He  invited  an  opinion  which 
he  held  very  strongly  himself,  but  Gervase  was  too 
simple  to  be  caught. 

"It  will  seem  to  do  good  at  first,  but  in  the  long 
run  character  tells,  and  not  accident.  When  life 
and  death  come  into  play  it  won't  be  your  lordship 
— which  means  nothing — but  your  lordliness  which 
will  determine  the  issue." 

Bendish  moved  about.  "I  suppose  that  blood 
counts  for  something."  His  heart  jumped  respon- 
sive: of  course  it  did! 

"It  counts  for  as  much  as  you  have  of  it,"  Ger- 
vase said.  "You  will  want  it  every  drop."  He 
was  too  grim  for  comphments,  too  fresh  with  his 
own  convictions. 

Put  upon  his  mettle,  Bendish  took  the  wisest 
course.     He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  my  friend.  I  shan't  see  you  again. 
But  you  will  hear  of  me  in  England." 

Gervase  took  his  hand.  "  I  shall  follow  you  soon," 
he  said.     He  was  dog-tired. 

The  dawn  was  gray  over  the  room  where  Georgi- 
ana  and  the  children  lay  asleep.  Poore  stood  some 
minutes  watching  them.     He  saw  that  she  lay  with 


THE  BLOOD-PACT  i8i 

the  child,  and  approved  it.  It  was  true  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  Bendish,  in  fact,  had  hap- 
pened. He  did  not  even  feel  the  impulse  to  waken 
her,  to  clasp  her  and  learn  from  her  chnging  arms 
whether  he  had  approved  himself.  He  was  too  sure 
— from  Bendish — that  he  had,  and  for  this  moment 
of  triumph  too  satisfied  with  that.  He  had  no  no- 
tion that  anything  severed  him  from  her,  no  sus- 
picion of  the  tragic  significance  of  her  act.  All  his 
thoughts  of  her  were  tender.  So  deeply  asleep — a 
child  with  her  child!  A  pure  refuge  for  him,  when 
need  was,  from  the  turmoil,  blood,  passion,  dust  and 
heat  to  come!  He  breathed  thanksgiving  upon  her, 
and  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house  into 
the  air.  The  goatherds  climbing  up  the  mountain 
paths  saw  him  above  them,  tall  and  cloaked,  erect 
against  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   LORD   AS   DEMAGOGUE 

Bendish  was  true  to  his  word.  He  left  Rapallo 
on  the  morrow  of  the  pact,  but  chose  for  the  sea, 
taking  only  Mackintosh  with  him.  The  rest  of  his 
household  might  travel  as  it  would,  or  could.  A 
local  bark  took  him  to  Genoa,  where  he  shipped 
himself  aboard  a  merchantman.  Here,  provided 
with  a  stateroom  and  private  dining  quarters,  he 
played  the  Exiled-for-opinions  to  a  great  tune,  keep- 
ing himself  rigidly  apart  from  those  he  was  coming 
to  redeem.  Folded  in  an  ample  cloak  of  black, 
marble-faced  and  inscrutable,  he  sat  upon  the  taff- 
rail  and  brooded  upon  the  ocean.  Mackintosh,  pre- 
pared for  most  vagaries,  was  puzzled  by  his  lord- 
ship's present  manner.  "There's  three  handsome 
women  on  board,  and  his  lordship's  not  so  much  as 
known  it — not  so  much  as  called  their  attention.  ..." 
It  was  Mackintosh's  private  opinion  that  his  lord- 
ship, at  the  moment,  was  "in  the  skin"  of  Mr. 
Poore,  of  whom  he  had  seen  so  much  at  Rapallo; 
and  Mackintosh  was  right.  Bendish,  never  really 
happy  unless  he  was  trying  to  be  something  which 
he  was  not,  or  to  get  something  which  somebody 
else  had,  was  a  very  chameleon  for  lapping  up  atmos- 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  183 

phere.  Just  now  he  was  filled  with  a  sense  of 
Poore's  power  of  conviction,  swiftness  of  grasp  and 
singleness  of  purpose,  all  of  which,  as  he  had  ob- 
served, resulted  in  a  fine  abstraction  from  the  affairs 
of  this  world.  He  was  more  filled  with  that  than 
with  what  they  were  aimed  at;  but  it  did  very  well. 
The  handsome  women  preened  themselves  in  vain 
in  the  sun.  He  had  no  more  eye  for  them  than 
Poore  would  have  had — or  so  it  certainly  seemed  to 
them. 

Abstracted  he  remained  until  the  dim  cliffs  of 
England  loomed  low  down  in  the  northern  sky;  and 
then  he  became  feverishly  ahve,  and  as  he  had  to 
talk  to  somebody,  he  fell  back  upon  Mackintosh. 
He  gave  that  subservient  functionary  to  understand 
that  he  intended  to  stay  a  month  at  least  at  Castle 
Bendish,  where  he  had  never  yet  stayed  for  two 
nights  together  in  his  Hfe.  Mackintosh  was  to  pro- 
ceed thither  at  once  and  put  everything  in  order. 
"I  shall  have  several  guests,"  his  lordship  said, 
"political  gentlemen,  I  fancy.  There  will  be  no 
women — at  least,  no  ladies.  You  had  better  take 
Wimble  down  to  see  about  the  horses — though  prob- 
ably we  shall  walk  a  good  deal."  At  this  surprising 
contingency  Mackintosh  blinked.  "And  see  to  the 
wine,  will  you,  Mackintosh?  We  shall  want  plenty 
of  wine — claret  and  burgundy  mostly.  And  a  good 
deal  of  brandy — just  see  to  all  that.  Then — let  me 
think —  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  I  wish  the  gardens 
to  be  seen  to.  They  ought  to  be  in  good  order,  you 
know — and  the  park  too.     I  shall  probably  have 


1 84  BENDISH 

some  public  meetings  down  there —  I  shall  throw 
the  grounds  open  two  or  three  times  a  week.  It 
must  be  made  proper  for  that  kind  of  thing.  Get  in 
whatever  men  may  be  necessary,  and  have  it  all  in 
first-class  order  by  the  autumn.  Servants?  You'll 
want  a  great  many  servants.  Mrs. — what's  my 
housekeeper's  name? — ah,  Mrs.  Timmins — she'll  look 
to  that.  I'll  see  Mr.  Heniker  directly  I  am  in  town, 
but  you  had  better  not  wait  for  that.  Lambert  will 
do  for  me  while  you  are  away.  I  shall  have  to  give 
some  dinner-parties — which  is  a  bore — but  that  can't 
be  helped." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  commissions  for  the 
unfortunate  man  which  hardly  ceased  until  the  ves- 
sel stood  into  the  Thames.  He  thought  of  some 
new  diversion  for  the  pohtical  gentlemen  every  hour 
of  the  slow  day.  Mackintosh  took  their  general 
sense  to  be  that  Castle  Bendish  was  to  be  thrown 
open  for  a  house-warming  or  something  of  the  kind, 
with  no  expense  spared.  Beyond  that  he  did  not 
inquire;  but  Bendish  found  his  "Very  good,  my 
lord,"  soothing  to  the  nerves.  He  would  have  had 
them  in  plenty  if  he  had  gone  on  to  expound  his 
present  pohtical  doctrines,  which  insisted  upon  the 
emancipation  of  Mackintosh  and  the  Hkes  of  Mack- 
intosh, and  the  obhteration  to  their  advantage  of  all 
the  lordships  in  England;  but  I  think  that  he  dimly 
perceived  their  incongruity.  At  any  rate  Mackin- 
tosh was  spared  such  hberality  of  assent. 

But  Roger  Heniker  was  not.  Summoned  to  St. 
James's  Street  within  a  week  of  his  patron's  arrival. 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  185 

he  found  Bendish  at  the  opening  of  his  campaign. 
The  Vision  of  Revolt  lay  upon  the  table,  and  wet 
sheets  of  an  "Address  to  the  British  people"  in  an 
upright  hand  Httered  the  floor.  Letters,  unfolded 
and. unsealed,  were  abundant,  and  another  was  in 
progress.  Bendish  looked  up  from  his  task  and 
hailed  his  visitor. 

"Ha,  Roger,  my  dear  fellow!  You  find  me  hard 
at  work — by  the  by,  you  must  get  me  a  secretary 
as  soon  as  may  be.  I  can't  think  and  write  letters. 
There  are  a  thousand  things  to  be  done  at  once — 
the  Epic  to  print — meetings  to  arrange  for  in  the 
country — the  House — Castle  Bendish  (Ah,  I  must 
speak  to  you  about  that — don't  let  me  forget — ). 
Then  I'm  busy  wdth  a  Manifesto — look  here,"  he 
held  up  the  dripping  sheet.     "Listen  to  this — 

"'For  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  your 
tyrants  are  calling  up  reserves  with  which  to  bind 
your  chains  closer  about  you.  What,  pray,  can  the 
enfranchisement  of  two  miUion  employers  of  labour 
mean  to  ten  million  driven  slaves  but  so  many  pliers 
of  the  whip  and  goad,  so  many  stewards  and  over- 
seers of  injustice  and  oppression?  If  you  submit  to 
it,  the  name  of  Englishman  is  gone,  and  with  it  the 
hope  of  the  free.  Let  them  go,  however,  on  such 
terms.  But  if  your  servitude  began  with  the  land- 
ing of  the  Norman  upon  your  shores,  your  hope  has 
endured  until  now,  when,  I  tell  you,  its  justification 
is  within  the  hollow  of  your  hands.  .  .  .'  "  He 
flicked  a  page  or  two,  then  threw  the  whole  aside, 
and  took  the  Epic  in  his  hands. 


l86  BENDISH 

"There's  good  reading  here — but  you  don't  feel 
poetry.  I  spare  you."  He  turned  over  the  sheets 
in  sections.  "You  shall  try  some  of  the  Notes.  By 
heaven,  they  ought  to  move  you.  Listen  to  this 
one,  on  the  House  of  Commons:  'An  Assembly, 
chiefly  self-elected,  which  can  interrupt  urgent  busi- 
ness— business  of  life  and  death  to  you  and  your 
families — to  consider  whether  a  man  is  speaking 
with  a  hat  on  his  head  or  in  his  hand  must  either  be 
in  senile  decay,  or  so  youthfully  exuberant  as  to  be 
wholly  unworthy  of  your  credit.  It  matters  not  to 
you  or  me  how  it  is  become  frivolous,  if  frivolous  it 
is.  Away  with  it.  .  .  .'  Damme,"  said  Bendish, 
"that's  Poore  all  over;  but  it's  devilish  good." 

Heniker's  jaw  was  square — it  jutted.  "That's 
scandalous,  Bendish.  You'll  get  him  into  trouble 
for  that,  if  you  let  it  go." 

Bendish  cheered.  "'Vogue  la  galere,'  old  Roger! 
Trouble  is  what  we  want.  We're  for  pikes  and 
barricades.     Listen  to  this  one: — 

"'A  coronation  will  inspire  a  sentimentaHst  of 
imagination  and  sympathy  to  the  highest  flights  of 
emotion  of  which  he  is  capable.  "Te  Deum  lauda- 
mus"  on  any  such  occasion  will  draw  the  tears  to 
his  eyes.  The  King  in  question  may  be  a  little 
wind-bag,  as  was  Louis  XIV.  of  France,  a  sack  of 
blubber  and  pretence  like  our  George  IV.,  or  a 
brigand  like  Napoleon;  but  the  sentimentalist  will 
magnify  the  man  crowned  at  the  expense  of  the 
kingship  conferred,  take  out  of  kingship  a  part  of 
its  essential  glory  and  pour  it  like  a  sacring  oil  upon 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  187 

a  rogue's  head.  But  your  pure  idealist,  who  exalts, 
because  he  sees  it  excellent,  kingship  itself,  and 
reaUses  the  King  because  he  sees  him  naked,  is 
morally  shocked  at  the  tragic  travesty.  He  fights 
his  way  out  of  church  into  the  air  and  cries  to  the 
people,  "What  in  the  name  of  wonder  are  you  about? 
Will  you  crown  a  hog?  Will  you  prostitute  a  holy 
thing  to  make  more  hideous  a  vile  one?  What  man 
among  you  is  worthy  of  kingship?  Let  each  man 
ask  himseh.  Yet  because  you  desire  a  king,  you 
lift  up  this  son  of  his  father  and  teach  yourselves  to 
beheve  that  his  office  will  ennoble  him.  You  say, 
'He  was  foul  half  an  hour  ago,  but  now  he  is  glori- 
ous.' I  tell  you  that  you  He  to  yourselves,  and 
make  this  wretch  the  victim  of  your  vice.  .  .  ." ' " 

Roger  listened  with  blank  dismay.  "Quem  Deus 
vult  perdere."  .  .  .  Was  Poore  mad?  Had  Ben- 
dish  ravished  his  mind?  Or  was  Poore  the  devil? 
Or  was  it  Bendish?  He  had  liked  Poore.  He  re- 
membered the  flushed  face  of  the  tall,  stooping 
poet;  he  remembered  his  beautiful  pale  wife.  Good 
Heavens,  here  was  a  kettle  of  fish!  But  he  didn't 
attempt  to  argue  with  Bendish.  He  knew  nothing 
could  come  of  that. 

Meantime  the  youth  had  stopped,  for  Heniker's 
plain  face  did  not  encourage  him  to  proceed.  .  .  . 
"That  must  be  broadcast  over  the  country  within 
the  next  few  weeks — meantime  I  am  getting  out  my 
Broadside  first,  and  seeking  alliances  high  and  low. 
To-morrow  I  breakfast  at  Holland  House.  On 
Thursday  Burdett,  Hunt,  and  some  of  the  politicians 


1 88  BENDISH 

dine  with  me.  Then  I  must  go  to  Castle  Bendish 
and  open  the  eyes  of  the  country.  The  hunt  is  up, 
Roger,  I  tell  you!  What  was  it  old  Latimer  said? 
.  .  .  'We  shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle  in  Eng- 
land' ...  I'm  in  very  good  fettle,  as  you  see. 
There's  nothing  Uke  hard  work  to  put  a  man  right 
with  himself.  If  I  can  only  keep  away  from  women, 
I  shall  leave  a  name  behind  me.  How  do  you  con- 
trive to  keep  out  of  their  meshes,  hey,  Roger?  To 
me  there's  a  lure  in  their  die-away  glances  that's — 
well,  thank  God,  I  am  too  busy  even  to  look  out  of 
the  window.  ...  I  assure  you,  I  can  walk  up  Bond 
Street  now  without  knowing  there's  a  petticoat  in 
it.  .  .  .  And  yet  men  of  action,  they  say,  have 
always  confessed  to  the  power  of  that  sex.  .  .  .  Nel- 
son, Napoleon — ah,  and  Caesar,  Alexander,  Pericles 
.  .  . !  Now — as  I  said — I  can  give  you  half  an  hour,  so 
let's  to  business.  I  must  see  Murray  at  noon  about 
the  Epic.  That's  urgent.  So  fish  out  your  parch- 
ments, old  fellow,  and  make  the  most  of  me.  .  .  ." 
Here  was  Bendish  in  a  hopeful  mood,  which  a 
tete-a-tete  dinner  with  Tom  Moore  certainly  did 
nothing  to  minish.  This  was  a  great  meal.  There 
was  nobody  like  Tom  to  draw  the  best  out  of  a  man : 
he  drew  everything  out  of  Bendish,  the  best  with  the 
worst.  Out  came  the  love-affair  with  Georgiana 
Poore,  but  with  the  name  left  out.  She  figured  as 
"a  woman  I  met  in  Italy."  "There  was  a  haunted, 
frail  look  about  her — a  sidelong  call  of  the  eyes, 
which  drew  me  on.  ...  I  confess  that  I  can't  stand 
out  against  your  slim  pale  women.  .  .  ." 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  189 

Tom  shut  his  eyes,  compressed  his  Ups,  and  nodded. 
Ee  knew!  He  could  love  them  all;  but  if  he  had 
a  preference  it  was  for  the  more  exuberant  t>pe. 
And  yet  he  had  been  a  slave  of  Mrs.  Lancelot  in  her 
heyday. 

Bendish  moistened  his  lips.  "I  loved  her,  Tom 
...  oh,  madly  ...  I  own  it.  .  .  .  And  she  led  me 
on  .  .  .  and  on.  .  .  .  And  then,  by  God,  she  played 
the  prude.  Sir,  I  was  damnably  hurt.  I  left  her 
without  a  word  ...  I  went  ...  I  roamed  the 
earth  ...  a  wounded  beast  ...  as  you  say,  ^^(oa-re 
\h  '^vyeveio'i.  .  .  ."  Well,  it's  over.  But  it  set  me 
writing.  I  used  my  heart-strings  for  a  harp.  .  .  . 
Wait  a  moment."  He  went  to  his  desk,  and  pro- 
duced a  bundle  of  papers.  "Take  this  home  with 
you.  I  call  it  The  Wanderer.  God  knows  what 
you'll  make  of  it.  I  believed  in  it  once — and  it  did 
me  good.  Now  I'm  home  for  action.  I'll  show  the 
world  what  I  can  do.  Poore  and  I  met — and  pro- 
duced this  red-hot  stuff.  ..."  It  was  now  the 
Epic's  turn. 

"Jesus!"  cried  Tom,  "here's  activity.  WTiy, 
Bendish,  you're  a  volcano,  not  a  man." 

"Most  of  this  is  Poore's;  but  I've  done  a  flaming 
preface — and  added  considerably  to  his  notes.  More- 
over, the  idea  is  mine.  I  put  Poore  to  it.  But  he 
was  at  it  for  six  months  while  I  was " 

"Enslaved  by  Calypso  in  an  island!  But — so  you 
met  Gervase  and  set  him  afire!  And  you  mean  to 
tell  mc  that  you  were  proof  against  his  lovely  wife!" 
Tom  held  up  his  hands. 


1 9©  BENDISH 

So  it  was  that  Bendish,  having  discovered  his 
friend  was  in  the  dark,  thought  it  well  to  let  him 
stay  there.  "His  wife?  She  doesn't  exist  for  me. 
I  assure  you,  Tom,  I  can  be  serious.  She  Hves  in 
her  children,  I  believe.  We  had  nothing  to  say  to 
one  another.  .  .  ."  He  frowned.  "There  was  a 
woman,  as  I  told  you,  who  singed  my  wings.  ..." 
Here  he  looked  pained.  "Enough  of  her.  Let  her 
rest — she  has  her  reward.  I  can't  grudge  it  her. 
You'll  find  her  in  The  Wanderer ^  if  you  care  to  look 
it  over.  Damn  her — she  made  me  suffer.  ...  But 
now  to  the  Epic.  It's  great,  you  know,  Tom. 
Poore's  a  strong  arm.  Now  hsten  to  some  of  this. 
Ballad-jingle,  you  may  call  it:  doggerel,  you  may 
call  it  even.  By  Gad,  sir,  he's  called  the  right  tune 
for  rural  England." 

He  began  to  read — fitfully,  here  and  there,  as  the 
fancy  took  him.  He  read  well,  with  devilry,  and 
with  conviction,  which  grew  as  his  mind  caught  fire. 
The  spirit  of  Poore  entered  him,  and  he  caught  up 
some  of  Poore's  fierce  tricks — his  digging  at  conso- 
nants, for  instance.  Those  were  days  when  poetry 
still  flamed,  and  men  were  still  kindling-wood.  Tom, 
who  had  a  genuine  love  for  Gervase,  was  greatly 
moved  by  the  Vision  of  Revolt,  though  very  sure  that 
Mr.  Murray  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  "  'Tis 
not  to  be  expected,  Bendish,  my  dear.  Murray 
swims  with  the  gold-fish  in  still  pools;  he's  got  a 
gleam  on  himself — you'll  find  a  scale  or  two  of  the 
precious  metal.  And  with  his  Quarterly  Trapa  fiijpovl 
Take  it  across  the  way,  my  dear.     Longman  will 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  191 

swallow  it  whole — though  the  King's  Bench  and  the 
Attorney-General  yawn  for  him.  Let  me  have  that 
bit  again  .  .  . 

He  sees  therein  his  homely  God 

With  earth-clods  clinging  to  his  side  .  .  . 

how  does  it  go? 

And  while  he  hymns  the  King  of  kings 
And  high  Te  Deum.   .  .   . 

Bendishj  you  have  Ht  a  candle  wdth  your  flint  and 
tinder.  ..."  Which  was  just  what  Bendish  had 
told  Heniker. 

The  Manifesto,  signed  "Bendish,"  was  in  the 
printer's  hands  that  day.  The  Poem  with  the 
Preface,  signed  "Bendish,"  and  containing,  with 
much  lofty  rhetoric  about  it,  a  rather  too  urbane 
patronage  of  "my  ingenious  friend  Mr.  Poore" — 
that  too  was  arranged  for — but  not  with  Mr.  Murray. 
The  conclusion  of  the  preface  was  thought  very  fine : 

"I  know  not  what  the  issue  of  Mr.  Poore's  'Vi- 
sion' and  of  my  own  conclusions  upon  it  may  be. 
I  abide  by  what  I  have  written,  and  am  prepared  to 
defend  it.  My  forefathers  fought  at  Hastings,  and 
fenced  about  with  steel  the  land  which  was  another's 
inheritance — at  least,  the  antiquaries  tell  me  so.  If 
it  be  my  lot  to  side  with  those  who  break  down  these 
hedges,  so  be  it.  They  have  served  their  turn,  and 
I,  for  one,  have  done  with  them.  By  so  much  the 
less  as  I  am  a  tenant  in  capite,  by  so  much  the  more 


192  BENDISH 

I  claim  to  be  an  honest  man.  And  so  the  whirHgig 
of  time  brings  his  revenges."  Then,  in  large  type, — 
"Bendish." 

The  proofs  were  to  go  through  Bendish's  hands; 
he  was  to  have  them  immediately,  he  was  told.  No 
narrower  promise  would  allay  his  present  fever.  So 
much  for  the  first  week  of  his  return  to  these  shores. 

But  Holland  House  gave  him  a  check,  and  not 
Tom  himself,  who  was  present,  with  his  infectious 
gallantry,  could  find  him  a  fine  among  the  academic 
whigs  of  that  breakfast-table. 

Holland  House  was  not  prepared  for  Poore's  short 
way  with  ParHaments;  but  it  gave  Bendish  his  head 
and  allowed  him  extracts  from  the  "Vision."  He 
read  with  fire  and  conviction.  The  table  heard  him 
out. 

At  the  close  there  was  a  heavy  silence.  Then 
Lady  Holland  coughed  and  looked  down  the  table. 
This  was  a  cue.  Sydney  Smith  leaned  forward, 
flushed  in  the  jowl. 

"I'll  give  your  lordship  a  title  for  your  friend's 
Apocalypse,"  he  said.  "You  shall  call  it  'Beyond 
This  Last.'  " 

"And  dedicate  it  to  Gifford,  who'll  be  dehghted," 
said  Mr.  Rogers  with  a  rasp  in  his  throat,  and  a 
look  about  him  to  see  how  his  shot  had  told.  Now 
Mr.  Gifford  was  fabled  to  have  been  bred  up  a  cob- 
bler, and  so  was  fair  game.  But  Holland  House 
took  good  shooting  for  granted. 

Mr.  Allen  said  nothing;  but  he  blinked,  and  looked 
as  if  he  might  be  profound  or  witty  at  any  moment. 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  193 

Bendish  was  rather  put  out.  Tom  Moore  jumped 
into  the  fray. 

"Too  bad,  too  bad.  Is  Gervase  Poore  to  be  the 
only  poet  kept  out  of  politics?  May  Mr.  Words- 
worth be  heard  on  Cintra,  and  Bob  Southey  call 
Wat  Tyler  his  brother,  and  poor  Gervase  not  have 
opinions?  'Tis  not  in  reason.  The  fine  young  man's 
full  of  opinions." 

"As  a  bladder  of  wind,"  said  Mr.  Rogers.  Ben- 
dish,  looking  very  much  the  Norman  imp,  now  said 
haughtily  that  his  friend's  opinions  were  his  own, 
and  that  he  was  prepared  to  defend  them  here  or 
elsewhere. 

"In  Another  Place?"  he  was  asked.  This  was 
from  Lord  Holland  in  his  wheeled  chair,  raising  his 
fine  eyebrows  at  his  brother  peer.  Bendish  looked 
the  questioner  down,  through  glimmering  fids. 

"  Certainly,  I  shall  defend  them  from  my  place," 
he  said,  "when  the  time  comes." 

Lord  Holland  bowed.  "The  time  will  undoubt- 
edly come,"  he  said.  "I  shall  hear  you  with  inter- 
est." 

"It  will  make  poor  Charles  Lancelot  rise  from  his 
place,"  some  one  thought;  but  this  was  denied. 

"Charles!  Did  you  ever  know  Charles  give  up 
place?"    Here  a  lady  tossed  her  feathered  head. 

"He  gave  up  one  place,  I  understood " 

"He  was  translated,  my  lady,  let  us  put  it " 

Lady  Holland  put  an  end  to  this.  "No  harsh 
judgments,  I  beg.     I  always  liked  her." 

"That's  in  her  favour!"  cried  Tom.     "Brava,  my 


194  BENDISH 

Lady!  She  was  a  lovely  person — and  so  she  will  b^ 
now,  I'll  warrant  her — with  her  children  at  her 
bosom."  Then  he  chuckled.  " '  Beyond  This  Last ' ! 
Good  for  you,  Doctor.  I'll  remember  that  for  Bo- 
wood.  But,  for  all  of  you,  I'll  engage  that  Poore  is 
heard  of  one  of  these  days.  .  .  .  And  he  snatched  the 
rose  from  the  cap  of  the  greatest  man  in  England — 
you'll  not  forget  that.  Nor  will  the  great  man,  I 
fancy.    They  tell  me  he's  inconsolable." 

"But,"  cried  her  ladyship,  "he'U  console  himself, 
or  let  her  console  him  when  they  come  back!  For 
I  suppose  your  friend  means  to  preach  his  absurd- 
ities in  person?" 

Bendish  impUed  stiffly  that  that  was  Poore's  in- 
tention. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  her  ladyship,  "that  will 
do  very  nicely.  While  the  husband  is  thumping  his 
tubs,  the  Duke  will  be  making  love  to  the  wife. 
And  it  will  begin  all  over  again." 

But  Moore  knew  better.  "No,  no,  my  lady. 
You're  out  there.  Gervase  swept  her  out  of  Wake 
House  like  a  fiery  wind,  and  she'll  never  go  back. 
Now  I  wonder  if  you  remember  a  certain  ball  there. 
'Twas  a  year — maybe  two — after  the  Duchess  died. 
I  know  the  Lancelots  had  been  in  the  house  a  year. 
Stay — I'll  fix  it  for  your  ladyship.  'Twas  the  year 
that  Lady  Geraldine  O'Meara  ran  away  with  Jack 
Pixton — and  'twas  at  that  very  ball  that  she  danced 
with  him  first.  Are  you  there  now?  Ye  are?  Very 
well  then:  now  'twas  Gervase's  first  introduction 
into  the  great  world — and  'twas  I  got  him  the  card 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  195 

from  the  lady  herseK — Nausithoe  he  called  her,  a 
pretty  name  for  her  gallant  breasting  of  the  waves 
of  this  world!  Now  I  went  to  his  lodgings  dressed 
in  my  best  to  take  him  along  with  me — and  my 
hackdey-coach  at  the  door — and  find  him  in  his  shirt 
and  breeches  writing  verses — 'Laggard!'  says  I, 
*and  the  daintiest  lady  in  London  straining  her  fine 
eyes  to  the  door  for  your  coming.'  'I'm  writing 
about  her  now,'  says  he,  and  wouldn't  budge.  And 
he  was  telling  her  in  flaming  metre  what  he  thought 
about  her  and  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  her — 
and  bedad,  he  sent  me  packing,  and  finished  his 
screed  in  his  own  time,  and  read  it  to  her  at  Wake 
House  that  very  night — and  their  first  meeting,  that 
was!  Oh,  but  Sir  Walter  himself  never  figured  a 
bolder  young  man!  Now,  my  lady,  if  such  a  youth 
takes  a  fancy  to  England,  and  falls  in  love  with  her, 
it's  not  the  House  of  Lords  will  stop  him  from  pick- 
ing her  up.  So  'Lovers,  beware,'  I  tell  the  Duke 
when  next  I  see  his  Grace." 

Her  ladyship,  with  whom  Tom  was  a  favourite, 
twinkled  at  his  high-flying.  "Bring  him  to  see  me 
when  he  comes,"  she  said,  and  Tom  made  her  a 
fine  bow. 

"I'll  do  it,  ma'am,  though  I  die  for  it,  and  give 
England  a  chance.  'Tis  a  wayward  eye  he  has,  and 
a  susceptible  heart.  But  your  ladyship's  is  infinitely 
benevolent — and  who  knows?"  Her  ladyship  swal- 
lowed even  this  with  complacency. 

At  this  rate  there  was  not  much  to  be  made  of  the 
Whigs.     Bendish  had  himself  swept  away  in  his 


196  BENDISH 

carriage,  where  he  sat  with  folded  arms,  looking  un- 
commonly Uke  Napoleon  after  Waterloo.  But  op- 
position of  the  sort  settled  his  back.  It  was  neglect 
or  indifference  which  stung  him  to  folly.  For  all 
that,  it  was  a  check. 

He  did  not  fare  much  better  with  the  Radicals. 
He  had  Sir  Francis  to  dine;  he  had  Vipont,  the  in- 
transigeant  member  for  Midport;  he  had  Lord 
Sandgate  and  Lord  Stanhope;  he  went  into  the 
highways  and  hedges  and  fished  up  Orator  Hunt, 
who  got  very  drunk  and  shed  tears  after  dinner. 
He  leavened  them  with  Tom  Moore,  and  another 
Mr.  Hunt,  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  the  Liberal  editor,  who 
had  been  primed  with  the  "Vision"  already  and 
admired  as  a  poet  what  he  deplored  as  a  politician. 
The  dismay  of  these  worthy  men,  when  Bendish 
hinted  at  his  friend's  plans,  should  have  been  com- 
ical to  a  detached  observer,  who  would  have  been 
able  to  discount  the  possible  mischief  by  allowance 
for  the  naivete  of  the  proposals.  These  plans,  he 
told  them,  Reformers  to  a  man,  contemplated  with 
great  satisfaction  the  almost  certain  rejection  of  the 
Bill  by  the  Lords,  and  proposed,  wdth  that  m  view, 
a  popular  demand  for  a  share  in  government  which 
should  sweep  away  the  Estates  of  the  Realm  and 
substitute  a  National  Comimittee  of  Delegates 
chosen  by  ballot  upon  a  basis  of  manhood  suffrage. 
The  King,  too,  Bendish  thought,  should  be  elected, 
upon  the  Anglo-Saxon  plan.  You  need,  as  I  say, 
to  be  detached,  not  to  say  fond  of  abstraction,  to 
be  captivated  by  this  kind  of  thing;  but  Sir  Francis 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  197 

was  not  at  all  detached  just  then,  and  was  therefore 
very  much  concerned.  It  is  probable  that  Sir 
Francis  was  shocked.  He  had  been  too  long  in  the 
House  of  Commons  to  conceive  of  salvation  outside 
its  provision  thereto.  How  could  you  have  salva- 
tion indeed,  until  it  had  been  read  a  third  time?  He 
entrenched  himself  within  the  Constitution  like  any 
Whig.  No  such  plan  as  the  poem  foreshadowed,  he 
roundly  told  Bendish,  could  have  his  support.  It 
thwarted  the  will  of  the  people. 

"How  so,"  said  Lord  Bendish,  "when,  on  your 
own  showing,  the  people  are  not  yet  represented?" 
"My  lord,"  said  Burdett,  "they  are  at  our  back." 
"Tradesmen,"  said  Bendish.     "They  are  not  the 
people.    They  exploit  the  people." 

"They  are  entitled  to  be  heard,  my  lord." 
"By  all  means.    Let  them  join  in  the  chorus.    But 
your  Bill  makes  them  soloists.     Now  we  say  that 
they  are  harder  masters  than  the  landowners." 

Sir  Francis  frowned  very  shghtly,  and  shook  his 
head.  "I  cannot,  I  fear,  lend  myself  to  Mr.  Poore's 
generalisations.  I  adhere  to  the  Constitution,  which, 
in  my  view,  is  dangerously  strained  by  the  Tory 
party,  but  not  to  breaking-point.  In  its  defence  I 
go  all  lengths — but  not  to  its  destruction.  And  I 
trust  the  merchants  and  farmers  of  England.  Com- 
merce is  our  backbone.  Self-respect  is  founded  upon 
property,  and  property  upon  integrity.  Mr.  Poore 
is  a  visionary,  and  nourishes  himself  upon  the 
dreams  of  the  French — which  they  themselves  have 
found  to  be  a  yeasty  fare.  That  is  not  our  English 
way." 


198  BENDISH 

Orator  Hunt,  mellow  with  wine,  cheered  him. 
"There  speaks  the  Tribune  of  the  People!  There 
speaks  my  friend  and  my  leader!  My  lord,  I  say, 
God  bless  the  House  of  Commons!  The  proudest 
title  a  man  can  look  for  in  this  country  is  that  of 
M.P."  Then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the  Yeomanry 
of  England,  our  spine  and  marrow,  and  proposed  its 
health  with  three  times  three.  But  nobody  took 
any  notice. 

Mr.  Vipont  said  nothing,  Lord  Sandgate  said 
nothing.  Lord  Clanranald,  a  fiery-haired,  square- 
faced  man  who  had  been  a  sailor,  some  said  a  buc- 
caneer, in  his  day,  agreed  with  Bendish.  "Party 
is  master,"  he  said,  "the  House  of  Commons  servant. 
The  thing  will  be  made  worse  instead  of  better  by 
the  Bill.  We  all  know  that.  But  what  are  you  to 
do?  They've  set  their  minds  on  it.  It  has  taken 
thirty  years  to  get  it  there — and  how  are  you  going 
to  get  it  out  again  and  something  else  in  its  place 
in  three?  They  won't  rise.— I  know  them.  You 
may  get  a  few  more  ricks  burnt  in  the  country  and 
a  few  more  windows  broken  here — there  are  always 
people  to  be  had  who  enjoy  that  kind  of  thing— but 
you'll  do  no  more — under  a  century.  We  don't  fire 
ricks  for  better  ideas  in  England,  but  for  better 
wages.  You  are  perfectly  right,  however — or  your 
poet  is.  The  House  of  Commons  is  the  thing  to 
sweep  away.  You'll  never  do  anything  while  that 
lasts.  It's  too  old  and  too  childish  at  once.  If  I 
were  younger,  and  not  a  husband  and  father,  as 
thank  God  I  am  at  last,  I'd  be  with  you,  traihng 
pikes.     We  all  know  that  you're  right,  I  beheve " 


THE  LORD  AS  DEMAGOGUE  199 

Sir  Francis  shook  his  head,  but  Lord  Sandgate's 
dark  eyes  glowed — however,  the  speaker  turned  off 
what  seriousness  he  had  had  into  an  easy  pleasantry. 

"But  you've  come  among  men  of  forty,  my  dear 
lord/^  he  said,  "and  you  must  find  men  of  thirty 
or  less.  You  can't  make  revolution  after  thirty. 
Digestion  means  too  much  to  you " 

Bendish  found  himself  speechless  among  these 
gentlemen,  to  his  extreme  annoyance.  The  reason 
was  simple.  He  could  only  be  what  he  was  beheved 
to  be.  What  added  rage  to  impotence,  however, 
was  that  they  treated  Poore  throughout  as  the  man 
to.  be  reckoned  with.  Again,  the  reason  was  simple. 
Poore,  however  ridiculous,  was  in  dead  earnest; 
Bendish,  however  much  in  earnest,  was  afraid  of 
being  ridiculous. 

But  for  the  present  he  persevered.  The  Manifesto 
came  back  from  the  printer's;  he  drank  freely  of  his 
own  eloquence  and  was  greatly  moved.  "By  God, 
I  have  'em ! "  he  told  himself.  "  By  God,  I  have  'em ! " 
The  Vision  oj  Revolt  looked  cold  and  lumpy,  like  a 
stale  jelly-fish,  beside  this  reeking  thing — wet  with 
ink,  though  its  blood  was  no  wetter. 

He  read  it  again,  and  would  not  alter  a  Une — he 
liked  its  very  defects.  Here  was  an  awkward  rela- 
tive: let  it  stand.  Here  was  a  limping  simile — it 
was  the  nearer  to  nature!  He  sent  it  to  be  struck 
off  and  distributed  among  his  agents.  They  were 
not,  in  fact,  his  own  agents;  but  had  been  found  for 
him  by  his  secretary,  who  had  been  found  by  Heni- 
ker.     Bendish  could  not  get  out  of  the  way  of  doing 


200  BENDISH 

his  work  by  deputy.  "Get  that  thing  printed  off, 
and  pubHshed,"  he  said  in  his  lordly  way.  That 
was  done. 

"BEYOND   THIS  LAST." 

AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  ENGLAND 

BY 
LORD  BENDISH 

was  in  the  newspapers  within  a  week.  The  title 
was  very  happy.  Holland  House  was  stirred.  Mr. 
Allen  said,  "This  should  never  have  been  written." 
Sydney  Smith  saw  his  joke  forestalled.  That  had 
been  really  clever  of  Bendish,  and  the  wit  had  the 
wit  to  laugh  at  himself.    We  could  never  afford  it. 

I  don't  know  that  it  was  taken  seriously;  but  it 
was  talked  about,  and  its  author  even  more  so. 
The  Billiad  was  re-read.  Ladies  asked  Lord  Ben- 
dish  to  evening  parties.  He  became  a  popular  Revo- 
lutionary— among  those  who  cared  for  revolution- 
aries and  thought  little  of  revolution.  These,  they 
said,  were  not  possible  in  England.  But  a  revolu- 
tionary never  came  amiss  to  an  evening  party. 

The  Duke  of  Devizes  read  it  after  breakfast, 
standing  by  the  long  window  of  his  library,  dressed 
for  his  morning  ride.  His  keen  blue  eyes  twinkled. 
"Master  Poore  has  had  a  hand  in  this,"  he  thought 
to  himself.  "I  should  like  to  know  what  my  poor 
girl  thinks  of  it  all." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   GAME   AND  THE  PIECES 

On  that  morning  of  Bendish's  departure  Georgiana 
had  risen  at  six  and  left  Poore  deeply  asleep.  It 
must  have  been  near  five  when  he  had  come  in  and 
thrown  himself  as  he  was  upon  his  bed.  She  had 
feigned  sleep  in  her  misery,  but  the  fact  that  he  had 
stooped  over  her,  watched  her  closely  and  then 
kissed  her  cheek  had  gone  near  to  lose  her  her  re- 
serves. He  fell  asleep  the  moment  he  was  down, 
and  presently  she  stole  away  tiptoe,  and  did  her 
washing  and  dressing  in  the  closet  next  door.  She 
got  the  children  up  and  out  on  to  the  loggia  where 
they  were  to  play  while  she  boiled  their  milk  and 
made  herself  some  coffee.  While  all  these  domestic 
affairs  were  getting  themselves  done  with  her  usual 
neatness  and  hght  touch  upon  them,  her  mind  was 
full  of  care;  but  there  was  the  memory  of  that  kiss 
to  comfort  her.  She  clung  to  that,  and  made  des- 
perate play  with  it.  But  foreboding  lay  upon  her 
heart  hke  a  memory  of  dread.  She  felt  sick  with 
nerves.  Breakfast  over,  she  took  her  children  with 
her,  one  in  her  arm  and  one  by  the  hand,  and  sought 
the  deep  of  the  garden,  where  it  still  lay  shadowed 
from  the  sun,  where  the  air  still  had  the  freshness  of 
dawn  in  it,  and  a  little  brook  came  tinkling  over 


202  BENDISH 

rocks  on  its  way  to  the  river  and  the  sea.  By  that 
she  sat  herself  and,  dehberately  confronting  it, 
mused  over  her  affair. 

She  knew  her  poet  through  and  through,  for 
though  she  loved  him  for  his  very  faults,  which 
made  him  what  he  was,  she  was  cool  enough  to 
judge  whither  these  might  lead  him  if  he  were  not 
guided.  A  woman  can  always  judge  the  man  she 
loves,  for  love  is  to  her  a  possession  and  not  a  need. 
She  holds  it — it  is  a  vantage-ground,  and  having 
that  safe,  she  can  look  about  her  and  take  observa- 
tions. So  far,  as  she  saw,  Gervase  had  been  content 
to  express  himself  in  Art — except  once,  and  that  was 
when  he  expressed  himself  by  running  away  with 
her.  But  since  that  she  and  art  had  filled  up  the 
bowl  of  life — deep  draughts  of  love  had  been  taken, 
and  the  issue  had  been  much  burning  poesy.  Four 
wondrous  years  they  had  had — a  four-years'  honey- 
moon— and  now,  it  seemed,  he  was  on  the  edge  of 
action,  and  of  action  which  could  only  hurt  him,  and 
was  doomed  by  its  very  gallantry  to  complete  fail- 
ure. She  felt  as  she  sat  here  alone,  her  chin  cupped 
in  her  hand,  frowning  as  she  looked  down  at  her 
tossing  foot — she  felt  that  she  could  bear  any  hard 
measure  the  world  might  mete  out  but  that  Gervase 
should  try  a  thing  and  fail  in  it — fail,  that  is,  in  her 
eyes;  for  the  opinion  of  the  world  she  cared  nothing. 
The  world  had  been  deaf  to  his  music — but  she  had 
heard  it:  but  now  if  he  adventured  after  Lord  Ben- 
dish  in  this  political  quest,  whether  the  world  saw 
him  or  not,  admired  him  or  not,  she  would  see  him 


THE  GAME  AND  THE  PIECES  203 

futile  and  absurd — and  she  could  not  bear  that.  It 
would  be  as  if  she  watched  him  strangle  love  with 
his  own  hands.  Let  him  do  what  the  spirit  bade 
him,  in  God's  name;  but  let  him  succeed.  She 
could  not  afford  that  he  should  fail.  Now  in  this 
business  she  knew  that  he  must  fail. 

She  was  not  a  politician — no  woman  is;  but  she 
had  lived  in  the  world  where  poHtics  is  the  air  of 
the  room,  and  she  knew  what  could  be  done,  and 
what  not.  The  Reform  Bill  would,  of  course,  be 
carried.  Her  friend,  the  rigid  old  buckram  Duke, 
must  give  way  sooner  or  later — but  there  could  be 
no  revolution.  Neither  Gervase  nor  a  House  full 
of  him  could  bring  that  about.  His  Vision  of  Revolt 
was  \'itiated  for  her  by  that  one  fact,  that  he  had 
seen  what  was  not  there,  and  prophesied  what  would 
never  come  to  pass.  He  might  sing  himself  to  death 
— but  there  would  be  no  Revolt.  She  had  heard 
him  read  that  part  of  it  overnight  \\dth  a  sick  heart. 
Splendid  failure,  generous  blunder!  Alas,  for  such 
noble,  pure-hearted,  single-hearted  heroes.  Cruci- 
fixion is  the  end  of  them — and  for  her  the  foot  of 
the  Cross. 

Judging  him,  with  a  bleeding  heart,  she  judged 
the  other,  but  with  scorn.  Poore,  her  poet,  was  in- 
deed what  Bendish  thought  himself  to  be,  a  man  of 
a  single  idea.  One  idea  filled  his  mind  at  a  time, 
and  he  pursued  that  to  its  death,  or  his  own.  That 
was  how  Lord  Bendish  flattered  himself  he  did  also, 
but  it  was  not  so.  She  knew  his  kind,  her  world 
had  been  full  of  them.     Side  by  side  with  any  idea 


204  BENDISH 

hunted  by  Bendish  went,  in  the  mind  of  the  hunts- 
man, a  clear  image  of  Bendish  in  pursuit  of  it.  If 
that  got  blurred,  or  was  made  ridiculous,  the  chase 
of  the  other  was  abandoned;  but  you  could  never 
make  Poore  ridiculous  in  his  own  eyes,  or  baffle  him, 
because  he  never  saw  himself  at  all,  but  only  the 
thing  he  was  chasing.  That  made  him  a  much 
more  redoubtable  hunter — might,  and  very  often  did, 
make  him  an  infernal  nuisance.  It  brought  him  also, 
upon  occasion,  to  enormous  grief,  as  will  be  seen. 
It  made  him  possibly  a  very  fine  poet — and  I  have 
no  doubt  about  that;  it  made  him  certainly  an  im- 
possible politician,  because  he,  viewing  his  single 
idea,  came  in  conflict  with  men  who  could  see  half 
a  dozen  ideas  at  the  same  time.  Like  Patroclus, 
who  thought  of  nothing  but  the  slaying  of  Hector, 
he  was  liable  to  be  struck  by  Euphorbus  unaware. 
Then,  while  he  was  turned  half  about,  maddened  by 
a  flank  attack.  Hector  jumped  in  and  despatched 
him.  All  this  she  saw,  and  that  some  such  by-blow 
must  be  the  end  of  her  Gervase,  and  the  end  of  her; 
but  long  before  the  tragic  crisis  came,  Bendish  would 
be  safely  away,  making  love  to  some  man's  wife. 
As  this  particular  image  came  into  her  mind,  her 
eyes  concentrated  and  grew  bitter-bright.  The  wretch 
had  been  tender  with  her;  and  Gervase  knew 
nothing  of  it.  She  had  never  said  a  word  of  it  for 
reasons  which,  at  the  time,  had  seemed  to  her  ex- 
cellent. Now  she  was  not  so  sure.  If  she  had  told 
him  she  had  murdered  The  Vision  of  Revolt.  And 
had  that  not  been  merciful?  .  .  . 


THE  GAME  AND  THE  PIECES  205 

Meantime  she  saw  that  she  could  not  yet  go  to 
England,  whether  her  old  friend  needed  her  or  not. 
Too  much  was  at  stake.  Gervase  in  England  atop 
of  his  Poem  was  an  impossible  thought.  She  fore- 
saw, with  desperate  certainty,  every  stage  of  his 
ruinous  chase.  He  would  spend  himself  like  the 
wind  among  the  trees,  lash  himself  to  pieces  like 
waves  against  the  black  rocks.  He  would  be  re- 
viled, hounded  about,  persecuted,  arrested,  tried, 
pilloried — God  knew  what  they  would  not  do  to  him. 
You  see,  she  knew  the  Governors  of  England — while 
he,  her  poor  boy,  knew  nothing  but  the  idea.  She 
had  lived  in  the  world  which  thought  of  idealists  as 
vermin.  She  did  not  think  of  them  so  herself — 
that  is,  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  think  so  of  them; 
but  she  was  of  the  world  which  did,  and  she  could 
not  for  her  life  admire  them  for  futihty.  A  poet 
who  tried  to  realise  poetry  must  be  futile.  Revolu- 
tion in  England  must  be  futile.  She  was  no  Pharisee, 
with  rancour  in  her  heart;  but,  like  Pilate,  she  was 
of  the  ruling  class,  and  had  learned  to  wash  her 
hands  of  Jacobins. 

She  thought  now  with  a  half-humorous  pity  of 
her  Gervase,  as  if  he  was  her  son  rather  than  her 
lover  and  spouse.  Dear,  generous,  wild,  absurd  boy 
— she  must  save  him  at  any  cost.  Her  eyes  were 
misty,  but  her  lips  smiled.  She  looked  very  wise 
as  she  sat  there,  nursing  her  chin,  looking  into  the 
eddying  water. 

A  quick  footfall  startled  her.  She  turned  about 
quickly  and  saw  Gervase  coming.     The  morning  was 


2o6  BENDISH 

in  his  face.  She  saw  that  something  was  there 
which  had  not  been  there  yesterday,  and  that  some- 
thing had  gone  from  it  which  had  clouded  it  before. 
It  called  her  up.  She  left  her  rock  and  went  to 
meet  him.  His  eyes  were  alight  as  he  met  her, 
clasped  and  kissed  her.  They  said  nothing  but  with 
their  touching  Ups;  but  she  knew  by  the  way  he 
held  her  all  he  had  to  tell  her.  Instantly  she  sur- 
rendered. He  was  her  lover  and  lord.  He  must  do 
as  he  must.  .  .  .  He  must  do  as  he  must — yes;  but 
she  must  coax  him  to  do  as  she  would.  And  that 
would  be  easy  if  he  was  still  hers.  It  would  be  a 
game,  a  serious  game — but  how  she  would  revel  in 
the  playing  of  it! 

When  they  had  breakfasted  and  the  children  were 
abed,  the  game  began.  He,  with  that  sense  of  free- 
dom and  enlargement  which  the  accomplishment  of 
a  task  always  gives  a  poet,  talked  freely  of  his  work 
— more  freely  than  for  some  months.  Her  rehef  to 
have  him  again  in  undivided  communion  hid  up  her 
latent  disapproval.  Her  heart  consented  to  him 
though  her  judgment  did  not.  He  said  that  it 
would  be  well  if  they  went  to  England  as  soon  as 
might  be.  First  of  all,  she  wanted  to  go — and  she 
did  not  for  the  moment  attempt  to  deny  it.  Then 
there  was  the  poem  to  be  put  through  the  press; 
there  might  be  work  consequent  upon  its  appear- 
ance, for  another  thing.  He  might  have  to  face 
prosecution — who  knew?  At  any  rate,  he  was  in 
dead  earnest,  he  assured  her,  and  intended  to  do 
what  he  could  to  bring  his  visions  to  pass.     She  had 


THE   GAME  AND  THE  PIECES  207 

guessed  as  much,  but  was  very  faint  in  her  opposi- 
tion. The  time  for  opposition  was  not  yet,  nor  the 
way  of  it  plain.  She  was  held  by  his  arm,  her  head 
against  his  high  heart.  "Dearest,"  she  had  mur- 
mured, "  but  what  can  you  do?  "  He  had  laughed  as 
he  replied,  "Why,  very  little."  And  then  she  found, 
to  her  rehef ,  that  he  took  a  soberer  \dew  of  himself 
than  she  had  imagined  in  him. 

"The  Reform  Bill  will  pass,  of  course,"  he  said, 
"in  spite  of  your  Duke;  no  intrigue  can  stop  it  now. 
It  will  threaten  a  sterner  tyranny  upon  the  English 
than  they  have  ever  known,  because  it  will  be  that 
of  their  own  race.  A  rich  Englishman  is  a  harder 
master  than  a  rich  Norman  any  day.  The  House  of 
Conmions  will  be  filled  with  successful  business  men. 
Government  will  be  by  Boards  and  Committees 
far  more  inaccessible  than  any  peer  or  country- 
gentleman,  and  far  more  doctrinaire.  The  work  of 
anybody  who  has  liberty  really  at  heart  is  behind  the 
reformed  House,  and  all  that  he  can  do  at  present  is 
to  make  the  poor  discontented.  Even  that  will  take 
a  couple  of  generations,  for  they  are  used  to  oppres- 
sion, and  don't  understand  that  they  have  any  rights 
at  all.  Duties  they  see,  but  not  rights.  Imagine, 
my  love,  of  this  task.  To  convince  a  nation  of 
slaves,  who  have  been  slaves  for  a  thousand  years, 
that  they  have  voices!  Yet  how  can  one  be  con- 
vinced of  that,  and  not  dare  say  so?  How  can  one 
have  the  face  to  write  that,  publish  it,  get  it  read  by 
the  ruling  caste,  and  shrink  from  telling  the  ruled 
that  they  are  free  the  moment  they  choose  to  say 


2o8  BENDISH 

so?  Impossible!  A  man  denies  his  God  if  he 
denies  the  revelations  his  God  sends  him.  No,  no, 
I  am  not  a  renegade.  I  have  always  done  what  I 
thought  proper  to  be  done.  Can  you  deny  that, 
knowing  what  you  know?  "  He  stooped  to  meet  her 
eyes,  but  she  would  not  look  at  him  then.  She 
snuggled  the  deeper,  on  the  contrary,  and  listened, 
knowing  her  time  would  come. 

"There  was  a  moment,"  he  went  on,  "when  I 
thought  that  my  work  was  done  by  writing  what 
came  into  my  heart;  when  I  thought  I  might  leave 
action  to  Bendish.  That  moment  has  gone,  and 
the  thought  with  it.  After  he  left  me,  I  went  up 
the  hill — and  saw  the  sun  come  up  out  of  the  sea. 
It  was  then  that  I  found  out  what  I  had  to  do.  It 
will  be  very  little — ridiculous,  indeed.  Yet  one 
must  begin.  I  suppose  I  can  do  what  WycHf  did, 
what  Wesley  did.  Why  not?  I  beheve,  as  they 
beheved;  I  am  young,  I  am  strong;  truth  is  on  my 
side.  I  am  ready  to  sacrifice  everything,  except 
love — and  that  I  can't,  for  that  is  myself.  When 
that  goes,  I  go,  and  my  task  will  be  over.  But  with 
you,  my  heart,  at  home,  with  you  to  come  to,  with 
your  pure  flame  to  cherish,  I  feel  that  I  can  do  my 
utmost.  I  see  my  way  clear  now.  I  shall  go  on, 
and  you  shall  be  with  me."  He  turned  her  in  his 
arm  until  they  were  breast  to  breast;  and  then  she 
looked  at  him  and  saw  him  inspired.  There  was 
that  in  him  which  she  could  adore,  but  that  in  him 
also  which  could  be  cajoled.  It  is  only  women  who 
can  love  and  criticise  in  the  same  long  look. 


THE  GAME  AND  THE  PIECES  209 

He  surprised  her  next  by  saying  that  he  had  small 
beUef  in  Bendish.  She,  of  course,  had  never  had 
any  at  all,  but  she  had  supposed  Gervase  hoodwinked. 
But  Gervase  now  told  her  that  he  thought  every 
mood  of  that  young  man's  was  dictated  by  vanity. 
"Bendish  doesn't  need  to  carry  a  looking-glass  about 
with  him,"  he  said.  "He  finds  one  wherever  he 
goes — in  anybody  \vith  whom  he  is  for  ten  minutes. 
He  turns  and  poses — and  judges  exactly  by  our  looks 
what  sort  of  a  fit  his  new  coat  is.  The  shghtest  oppo- 
sition will  put  him  out  of  conceit  with  himself.  He'll 
throw  away — not  himself  but  his  looking-glass,  and 
look  for  another,  and  try  it  with  new  posturings. 
Now  there  are  plentiful  rebuffs  in  this  business — 
and  he  won't  be  able  to  stand  them.  May  I  predict 
for  you  what  he'll  do  when  he  gets  to  England? 
He'll  arrive  filled  with  ideas — all  the  bubbles  of  the 
broth  we've  been  brewing  here  will  be  in  his  head. 
He'll  exhibit  these  to  his  own  people — to  peers,  whigs, 
parliament  men,  court  poets,  pretty  women,  men  of 
Brooks's  and  Almack's;  and  when  they  take  them 
coolly,  and  break  a  few  with  a  little  laughter,  or  a 
poke  of  fun — Bendish  will  be  mortified,  and  out  of 
heart  with  the  thing.  I  think  that,  unless  he  settle 
with  a  pubHsher  before  he  begins  to  talk,  our  poem 
stands  a  small  chance.  It  will  He  in  his  desk  and 
be  forgotten.  But  I'll  make  sure  of  it  by  writing  to 
Tom  Moore.  That  will  ensure  it  if  it  ever  reach  Eng- 
land. But  as  Bendish  must  talk  or  die,  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  some  chance  traveller  on  the  road 
were  the  occasion  of  my  Ilodgiad  going  into  the  sea." 


2IO  BENDISH 

She  was  amazed.  All  this  was  so  exactly  her  own 
opinion. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "how  did  you  find  all  this  out?" 

He  laughed  gaily.  "What  a  dolt  you  must  think 
me,  my  love,  in  your  heart  of  hearts!  I  think  I 
knew  it  all  after  the  first  five  minutes.  But,  you 
see,  he  excited  me  to  work,  and  so  I  kept  him  up  as 
long  as  I  wanted  him." 

"But  last  night,  my  dearest?  Your  dreadful 
ceremony — the  blood  and  the  glass.    I  hated  it." 

"I  knew  that  you  did.  I  was  wrong — I  was  play- 
ing. But  I  was  excited.  I  had  been  reading — and 
I  had  really  touched  him.  He  has  parts,  you  know. 
There's  a  man  underneath.  I  had  got  to  it.  I 
know  that.     Well — that  excited  me — so  I  played." 

She  nestled  to  him,  stroked  his  face.  "Oh,  you 
child — you  dear,  absurd  child."  He  lifted  his  head 
out  of  reach. 

"Everything  can  be  made  a  game,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but — "  she  was  serious.  "Is  all  that  you 
have  been  telling  me  to  be  a  game?" 

He  nodded  solemnly.  "It  will  be  played  as  a 
game — but  there'll  be  life  and  death  in  it."  Then 
he  kissed  her.  .  .  . 

But  at  the  love-game  she  was  easily  his  master, 
as  she  had  need  to  be  whose  stake  was  so  much  the 
heavier.  She  set  herself  to  woo  him  from  the 
thought  of  England,  and  as  the  days  slipped  into 
weeks  his  hold  upon  it  relaxed.  No  news  came,  of 
course,  from  Bendish.     That  was  not  to  be  expected; 


THE  GAME  AND  THE  PIECES  211 

and  every  day  without  news  was  a  gain.  What 
helped  her  was  the  root-instinct  of  penmen  that  a 
thing  on  paper  is  a  thing  done.  Freedom,  that  jewel 
of  price,  freedom  of  mind  is  gained  so;  and  that  once 
caught  the  fortunate  hunter  is  slow  to  the  yoke  again. 
Poore  began  to  talk  of  Italy,  and  she  abetted  him. 
Suppose  they  took  ship  to  Leghorn,  and  went  to 
Pisa  for  the  winter.  Then  Florence  in  the  spring, 
the  Baths  of  Lucca  in  the  heats — there  would  still 
be  time  for  England  in  the  autumn.  Georgiana  re- 
called Florence  to  him.  Did  he  remember  that  it 
had  been  there — four  years  ago — that  all  their  happi- 
ness had  been  planned?     He  did  indeed. 

But  had  she  not  wanted  to  see  the  Duke?  For 
Gervase's  sake,  she  denied  it.  She  should  be  glad 
to  see  him,  she  said,  but  could  not  weigh  him  against 
Italy.     She  thought  the  game  was  won. 

Then  came  a  letter  from  Bendish,  written  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  arrival.  The  Vision  was  in  Long- 
man's hands,  the  preface  written,  the  Manifesto  was 
out.  Everything  was  in  train — and  when  did  Poore 
arrive? 

That  letter  came  about  the  end  of  November  and 
was  very  nearly  fatal  to  Georgiana's  game.  Ger- 
vase  reproached  himself  for  his  slackness,  and  was 
for  starting  immediately.  It  was  no  time  for  half 
measures.  Georgiana  played  her  strongest  card, 
''Dearest,  if  you  feel  that  you  must —  But  I  can't 
come  with  you." 

He  looked  at  her  with  sudden  shock.  "You  can't 
come  with  me?     But  what  on  earth ?" 


212  BENDISH 

And  then  she  told  him  why. 

It  is  very  odd  that  the  more  in  love  a  man  is  the 
less  is  he  able  to  play  this  great  and  noble  game. 

The  Poores  went  to  Pisa  by  sea,  and  thence  to 
Settignano,  from  which  terraced  village  over  Arno 
we  shall  hear  from  them  again. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LORD   BENDISH  IN  FLOOD  AND  EBB 

The  month  following  the  publication  of  his  Mani- 
festo proved  to  be  the  very  greatest  of  Bendish's 
variegated  life.  It  suited  him  in  every  way.  He 
was  always  happier  talking  about  things  than  doing 
them;  he  was  happier  still  when  he  had  other  peo- 
ple talking  about  him.  For  this  month,  at  least, 
everybody  talked  about  him.  They  talked  at  him 
when  he  was  present,  of  him  when  he  was  not.  Even 
the  Duke  talked  about  Bendish,  who  was  brought 
under  his  notice  as  a  Reformer  who  was  against  the 
Reform  Bill.  But  what  set  the  Tories  chuckling 
drew  rage  and  dismay  from  the  Whigs.  The  ex- 
plosions of  their  journals  were  highly  complimentary. 
As  for  the  women,  there's  no  end  to  the  folUes  that 
were  committed  in  the  name  of  Liberty  and  Bendish. 
He  received  Phrj^gian  caps,  in  knitted  silk,  by  every 
post.  He  allowed  himself  to  be  crowned  with  bays 
in  one  fine  house.  A  certain  Lady  Hetty  offered 
herself  to  him  as  a  footman — or  anything  else  he 
[)leased.  To  do  him  credit,  he  declined  her.  He 
knew  his  own  weaknesses. 

The  Vision  of  Revolt  was  put  in  hand.  There  was 
no  trouble  about  a  publisher.     It  was  to  have  a 

213 


214  BENDISH 

Preface  by  his  Lordship,  and  this  document  was 
finally  written  and  in  proof  long  before  the  Poores 
left  Rapallo.  I  reserve  my  comments  upon  the 
document  for  a  later  page.  It  was  a  curious  and 
artful  combination  of  the  fiery  and  the  urbane,  and 
did  not  altogether  avoid  that  pitfall  of  the  urbane 
— patronage.  But  there  was  that  very  fine  passage 
about  Hastings  and  his  ancestry — that  still  stood. 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  honestly  loved  Liberty,  Liter- 
ature and  Lords,  saw  to  the  proof  sheets.  Another 
Mr.  Hunt,  the  orator,  was  responsible  for  Bendish's 
demagogy.  He  was  hat  in  hand  before  the  new 
Mirabeau  the  moment  success  was  undoubted,  and, 
so  long  as  he  was  sure  of  election,  ready  to  damn 
the  House  of  Commons  with  anybody.  It  was  under 
his  auspices  that  Bendish  made  his  first  public  utter- 
ance. "Come  with  me  to  New  Sarum,  my  lord," 
said  the  hearty  gentleman.  "Saxon  England  will 
clasp  you  to  her  bosom.  She's  a  fine  woman,  God 
bless  her!  and  will  allow  you  any  freedoms  you 
please."  Bendish  stiffened  his  fine  head  and  curled 
his  upper  lip  at  him.  "The  freedom  I  desire,  Mr. 
Hunt,  is  of  contract,  not  of  contact."  Mr.  Hunt 
swore  that  this  was  the  best  joke  he  had  ever  heard 
— ^which  it  may  have  been. 

But  he  drove  down  to  New  Sarum,  with  Mr. 
Hunt  by  his  side;  and  there  was  a  meeting  in  the 
Corn  Exchange  of  that  city  with  a  great  deal  of 
shouting.  Reform  was  by  that  time  the  only  cry, 
and  Bendish  found  himself  a  hero  for  advocating 
what  he  was  vowed  to  prevent.    He  spoke  explicitly 


IN  FLOOD  AND   EBB  215 

against  the  Bill;  he  attacked  it  with  vehemence. 
Nothing  could  induce  his  audience  to  see  what  he 
wanted,  and  nobody  was  present  to  whom  his  adjura- 
tions could  have  been  of  value;  but  he  knew  nothing 
of  these  things.  Mr.  Hunt  acclaimed  him  as  a 
Tribune  of  the  People,  and  called  him,  several  times, 
his  noble  friend;  shopkeepers  and  farmers  roared 
their  applause.  God  bless  Lord  Bendish  and  the 
Bill!  was  the  cry.  The  meeting  broke  up  mth  "  God 
Save  the  King,"  and  so  much  for  Revolt  at  New 
Sarum. 

Thence  to  Andover,  to  Ludgershall,  to  Newbury, 
to  Hungerford,  and  home  to  London — flags,  drums, 
and  speeches  everywhere,  and  everywhere  his  Lord- 
ship and  the  Bill.  Mr.  Hunt  stuck  to  his  flank  like 
a  horse-leech;  the  farmers  waved  their  hats  and 
thumped  with  their  sticks;  beer  swam;  the  Reform 
newspapers  shrilled  for  the  noble  young  orator;  the 
Manifesto,  with  its  scorn  of  the  Bill  and  its  passion 
for  pikes  and  barricades,  disappeared  from  view; 
Party  resumed  him.  It  was  maddening.  In  vain 
he  struggled  with  it.  Every  speech  he  made  was 
more  emphatically  anti-party,  and  by  party  the 
more  applauded.  Never  was  a  Reformer  like  his 
Lordship.  The  Bill  must  pass.  The  Bill,  the  whole 
Bill,  and  nothing  but  the  Bill  .  .  .  and  so,  God  save 
the  King!  At  the  close  of  every  meeting,  amid 
thunders  of  cheering,  Mr.  Hunt,  in  a  white  hat, 
struck  Bendish  on  the  back,  and  roared  above  the 
tumult,  "God  bless  his  Lordship  and  the  Bill!" 
There  was  enough  in  this  to  sicken  any  Mirabeau. 


2i6  BENDISH 

Bendish  returned  to  his  quarters  pale  and  deeply 
mortified,  hoping  against  hope  for  a  summons  to 
the  Tower.  He  found  instead  a  note  (one  of  many) 
from  Lady  Holland,  bidding  him  to  breakfast,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  He  received  also  a  belated, 
enthusiastic  letter,  beginning,  "My  friend,"  from 
Poore,  who  was  in  Pisa,  enquiring  about  the  run  of 
affairs.  On  the  top  of  all  this  he  received  a  visit 
from  Roger  Heniker  on  business.    Anti-climax. 

Now  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  his  exertions  in 
the  cause  of  Ultra-Reform  had  fatigued  him.  En- 
thusiasm was  on  the  ebb.  He  was  tired  of  shaking 
hands  with  Mr.  Hunt,  and  had  begun  to  be  conscious 
that  in  playing  that  worthy's  game  he  had  been  a 
piece  in  it  himself.  Expecting  Poore  momently,  he 
was  irritated  in  advance  by  his  expressive  shrugs  and 
scowls,  foreseeing  that  he  would  shrug  and  scowl. 
He  was  inclined  to  damn  Poore  for  criticisms  which 
he  suspected  to  be  just.  Poore,  he  said  to  himself, 
was  an  infernal  visionary.  The  thing  was  tolerable 
in  Italy,  absurd  in  England.  How  the  devil  could 
one  prevent  farmers  and  shopkeepers  from  coming 
to  a  meeting?  And  when  they  came  how  the  devil 
expect  them  to  understand  idealistic  anarchy?  How 
the  devil  could  one  get  the  peasantry  to  come?  But 
Poore  wouldn't  see  that.  Poore  would  have  wanted 
him  to  trudge  from  village  green  to  village  green  like 
one  of  the  Wycliffite  poor  priests  he  was  always  talk- 
ing about — and  Poore  might  do  it.  He  could  see, 
proleptically,  the  gleam  of  scornful  mirth  in  Poore's 
hot  eyes  when  he  heard  of  Bendish's  recent  progress 


IN  FLOOD  AND   EBB  217 

in  Wilts  and  Berks  in  a  chariot  with  four  horses,  and 
Mr.  Hunt  beside  him  in  a  white  hat  with  a  red  favour 
on  his  breast.  To  say  that  Poore  was  a  cockney 
poet  was  no  answer.  He  wasn't,  to  begin  with;  and 
there  was  the  Manifesto  already  upon  the  to\\Ti  and 
country;  and  there  were  the  Preface  and  the  Poem 
to  come.  Caught  in  reaction,  he  fainted  at  the 
heart  to  realise  what  was  before  him. 

Instant  escape  was  in  his  mind  when  Roger  Heni- 
ker  came  to  wait  upon  him,  and  found  him  at  the 
breakfast  table. 

"Look  here,  Roger,"  was  his  greeting,  "here's 
Poore,  red-hot,  writing  about  his  poem." 

Roger's  very  blue  eyes  twinkled.  "I  should  say 
that  he  had  better  come  home  to  correct  the  proofs," 
he  said. 

Bendish  scowled  at  his  cold  bird.  "I  daresay  he 
had.  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  none  here. 
Leigh  Hunt  may  have  them,  but  I  don't  know.  I 
haven't  had  time  to  see  about  them.  And  I  must 
revise  my  own  Preface,  of  course.  I  must  have  time 
to  reconsider  it.  I've  been  away,  infernally  worried. 
You  know  what  politicians  are.  Hunt — !  Good 
God,  I  wonder  we  don't  pistol  ourselves — in  fact, 
we  do  now  and  then.  But  I've  been  too  busy  even 
to  do  that.  He  used  to  slap  me  on  the  back,  d — 
his  eyes.  He  must  have  done  it  fifty  times.  I 
could  have  taken  him  by  the  throat  and  wrenched 
out  his  gullet.  Poems!  Proof-sheets!  I  daresay 
Poore  thinks  that  the  world  must  stand  still  while 
his  poem's  getting  printed;  but  it  won't,  you  know 
— and  he  must  understand  that." 


2i8  BENDISH 

"I  should  put  it  to  him,"  Heniker  said.  "I 
thought  him  a  very  reasonable  man." 

"The  fact  is,  you  know,"  Bendish  said,  leaning 
back  and  surveying  mankind  through  the  window, 
"there's  nothing  in  that  kind  of  thing.  I've  tried  it 
lately  in  the  country,  and  there's  no  kick  in  it.  They 
won't  hear  of  anything  else.  They  won't  consider  it. 
They  say  that  Reform  must  go  through " 

"Doesn't  Poore  say  so  too?"  Heniker  asked.  "I 
thought  you  said " 

"Yes,  yes,  yes;  I  daresay  he  does.  But  there 
was  talk,  you  know,  of  working  to  get  the  thing 
thrown  out." 

"Who  talked  of  that?"  Roger  asked.  He  was  in 
a  dry  mood.    Bendish  was  a  Httle  flurried. 

"Eh?  Why,  who  should  talk  of  it?  Don't  play 
the  fool  with  me,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  please.  I'm 
infernally  out  of  humour  to-day.  Now,  look  here, 
I  suppose  you'll  be  writing  to  the  Poores  shortly. 
Haven't  you  got  some  business  relations  with  the 
lady?"  Roger  nodded.  "I  thought  there  was 
something.  Well,  I'll  get  you  to  recall  my  Preface 
from  the  printer  and  hand  it  over  to  me.  You 
might  tell  Poore  that  I  am  thinking  it  over.  I  sup- 
pose—  No,  that  won't  do.  I  was  going  to  say  I 
suppose  you  couldn't  say  I  was  out  of  town — I  ought 
to  be,  you  know;  I'm  very  much  out  of  health. 
They've  been  waiting  for  me  down  at  Bendish  these 
two  months.  Eating  their  heads  off.  Eh,  what  do 
you  think?" 

Heniker  thought  he  could  very  easily  do  that — 
if  Bendish  went  out  of  town.     Hardly  otherwise. 


IN  FLOOD  AND  EBB  219 

"No,  no.  I  must  stay,  of  course.  But  you  might 
tell  him  how  I've  been  driven  about.  I'll  write  to 
him.  Tell  him  I'll  write.  We  must  meet,  no  doubt 
— later  on.  He's  certain  to  be  over  here.  I  can't 
say  that  I  think  there's  much  to  be  done;  but,  of 
course,  if  he  wants  a  meeting  he  must  have  it.  I 
hold  to  any  engagements  I  may  have  made — natu- 
rally. That's  my  way.  But  if  he  thinks  that  I  am 
going  to  put  my  name  to  a  thing  that's  doomed  to 
failure,  he's  egregiously  mistaken." 

"It  would  only  bear  the  author's  name,  of  course," 
said  Heniker.     Bendish  started. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?" 

"You  refer,  I  suppose,  to  Poore's  poem?" 

"I  refer  to  nothing  of  the  sort.  Upon  my  life, 
Roger,  I  sometimes  think — I  refer,  naturally,  to  my 
Preface." 

"Good,"  said  Heniker.     "I'll  tell  him." 

"Tell  him  what  you  please,"  said  his  Lordship, 
and  ya^^^led,  and  drank  his  tea.  Then  he  stared 
moodily  at  his  friend. 

"I  think,  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  shall  be  off 
again  shortly.  England  don't  agree  with  me.  It's 
all  nonsense.     She  and  I  will  never  get  on." 

Roger  chuckled,  but  said  nothing.  He  was  a. 
plain  man,  and  did  not  realise  that  Bendish  could 
be  at  once  bored  with  a  thing  and  bored  without  it. 

"A  man  can't  be  simple  in  this  damned  country," 
Bendish  went  on,  querulous.  "A  man  must  always 
do  what's  expected  of  him.  If  he's  a  peer  he  must 
toe  the  line — or  if  he's  a  ploughman.     But  there  are 


220  BENDISH 

some  things — there's  Hunt,  for  instance — oh,  the 
devil!  I  was  an  enormous  fool  not  to  have  pushed 
on  to  the  East  when  I  was  out  with  you.  But  you 
know  me — women,  0  Lord!  She  was  the  siren.  I 
listened  to  her  singing — and  so  it  went  on." 

Heniker  now  understood  him  to  refer  to  Mrs. 
Poore,  and  concentrated  his  gaze  upon  his  friend. 
"Now,  you  know,"  Bendish  continued,  beginning 
to  enjoy  himself,  "I  hold  to  the  full  in  the  right  of 
man  to  experience  in  every  direction  open  to  faculty. 
He  is  the  better  of  it  too — all  natural  right  apart. 
Nor  should  the  woman  regret  it,  for  she,  after  all, 
is  ultimately  the  gainer.  Let  him  range;  give  him 
his  fling.  If  he  comes  back  to  her,  it  is  because  she 
has  always  been  in  his  heart — his  strayings  and  wan- 
derings are  actually  testimony  to  his  constancy. 
That  sounds  to  you  a  paradox?  Examine  it — ^you'll 
find  it  a  truism.  Now  I  suppose  that  I  have  sounded 
the  depths  of  passion  as  deep  as  any  man,  but  I 
declare  to  you  upon  my  conscience  that  I  shall  bring 
the  riper  nature  to  the  woman  I  marry.  It  will  have 
been  annealed,  it  will  have  passed  through  the  fire. 
But  she  too  has  rights.  I  don't  forget  them.  She 
says,  I  give  my  hands,  I  yield  my  person,  I  devote 
my  nature  to  a  man — as  such — not  to  a  peer.  Naked 
I  go — simplex  munditiis.  Let  him  too  strip  himseh. 
What!  At  birth  and  at  the  hour  of  death  all  men 
are  equal.  It  should  always  be  so — and  so,  indeed, 
it  always  is  if  men  could  only  see  it.  You  may  not 
be  able  to  see  it,  you  poor  shackled  convenience — 
but  I  see  it,  and  I  accept  her  conditions — and  ac- 


m  FLOOD  AND   EBB  221 

cept  them,  mind  you,  more  logically  than  she  may 
suspect.  I  put  her  to  the  test,  it  may  be,  in  the  very 
act  of  submitting  to  her  own  test.  For  if  she  say 
to  me,  Strip  you  of  your  accidental  trappings;  stand 
up  before  me  plain  George  Bendish,  the  son  your 
mother  brought  forth,  the  issue  of  the  love  of  man 
and  woman — I  reply,  'I  do  it — the  thing  is  done:  I 
will  take  you  to  a  land  where  such  frippery  is  nothing. 
But  do  you  come  undecked  also,  except  with  your 
beauty  and  honour.  Come  to  me  clothed  in  your 
innate  purity — and  don't  cover  your  nakedness  with 
a  wedding-ring.'  If  she  is  the  woman  I  beheve  her, 
she  will  follow  me  over  the  world." 

The  young  man,  flushed  with  his  own  eloquence, 
rose  from  the  table  and  strode  to  the  window  giving 
on  to  the  dusty  town.  He  stood  there  at  gaze,  trem- 
bling and  excited.  Heniker,  bag  in  hand,  gaped  at 
him.  Accustomed  as  he  was  to  his  patron's  vagaries, 
he  was  now  completely  off  the  scent.  Was  there — 
had  there  been  an  intrigue  with  Mrs.  Poore?  It  was 
hardly  possible,  but — you  never  knew  with  Bendish 
what  there  may  or  may  not  have  been. 

He  thought  this  kind  of  windy  talk  very  out- 
rageous, though  he  was  by  no  means  more  squeam- 
ish than  men  of  his  own  age.  "I  must  say,  George, 
I  don't  know  why  you  address  yourself  to  me  in 
such  a  matter.  I'm  not  at  all  ready  to  advise  you, 
and  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
it.  If  you  propose  to  make  some  lady  your  mistress, 
the  thing  may  be  done,  I  believe.  But  fluid  talk 
about  innate  purity  has  a  nasty  taste  to  me;   and 


22  2  BENDISH 

as  for  the  wedding-ring,  you'll  find  that  that  is  a 
garment  no  woman  will  go  without  if  she  can  pos- 
sibly help  herself.  However — you  didn't  ask  my 
advice,  and  I'm  giving  it  you  for  nothing — ^which  is 
against  my  business  instincts." 

Bendish  listened  in  high  good  humour.  "My 
dear  old  Roger,  you'd  dress  every  bride  in  parch- 
ments, and  tie  her  up  in  red  tape — I  see  your  point. 
The  Rights  of  Man  are  nothing  to  you,  who  watch 
over  the  rights  of  property.  Either  a  man  has 
property — and  rights,  or  none — and  duties.  Either 
he  is  owed,  or  he  owes.  Pooh!  what  a  world  you 
lawyers  have  made  for  us  creatures  of  simple  appe- 
tites! But  there — ^go  your  ways — I've  done  with 
you.  I'll  be  free  of  this  galley-hulks  in  a  week  or 
so.  Off  with  you  and  comfort  your  poet."  So 
Heniker  found  himself  dismissed,  and  shrugged 
Bendish  out  of  mind. 

He  did  not  know,  and  could  not  have  realised 
what  a  lonely  creature  this  young  lord  was,  how 
much  he  needed,  and  how  much  fell  short  of  human 
companionship.  Bendish  was  one  of  those  men  with 
a  capacity  inferior  to  his  understanding.  He  saw 
what  fools  or  bunglers  most  men  were  and  was  not 
able  to  do  any  better  than  any  of  them.  He  was 
shy  and  arrogant  at  once.  He  was  eager  for  sym- 
pathy and  yet  for  ever  making  it  impossible.  With 
sympathy  he  could  have  done  anything,  and  yet  he 
would  only  have  it  on  his  own  terms,  which  were 
exorbitant.     He  had  been  set  on  fire  by  Poore  at 


IN  FLOOD  AND  EBB  223 

their  first  meeting;  his  enthusiasm  had  burned  with 
a  clear  flame — until  Poore  set  to  work  to  do  some- 
thing tangible.  The  moment  that  happened  he  began 
to  think  Poore  a  dullard,  and  he  ended  by  scorning 
him  for  an  ass.  Of  course  it  is  true  that  he  had 
failed  to  do  anything  to  impress  Poore,  and  that  he 
knew  it.  There  was  that  side  to  him.  If  Poore  had 
sat  at  his  feet  he  might  have  run  off  his  own  version 
of  The  Vision  of  Revolt — ^which  would  have  been  just 
as  good  as  Poore  was  able  to  think  it — exactly  as 
good  as  that.  But  Poore  did  not  sit  there,  but  in- 
stead, at  his  desk.  Bendish  was  chilled — and  drew 
in  his  horns. 

It  is  difficult  to  reahse,  but  quite  necessary,  how 
much  through  his  o^vti  quaUties  and  the  accidents  of 
his  birth  and  upbringing  this  young  man  stood  alone. 
He  had  not  one  intimate  of  his  own  rank  in  all  Eng- 
land. Men,  his  equals,  he  had  always  misdoubted; 
men,  his  inferiors,  he  used,  but  despised.  As  for 
women,  he  either  made  love  to  them,  or  thought 
nothing  about  them.  If  he  made  love  to  them, 
they  gave  him  his  desire,  or  they  did  not.  If  they, 
did — well,  then  they  were  husks,  not  women  at  all. 
If  they  did  not,  he  hated  them.  Prodigal  of  others, 
miser  of  himself,  he  was  worse-conditioned  than 
Catiline;  but  the  world  is  wide  and  full  of  people — 
and  he  had  never  yet  failed  of  candidates  for  dis- 
bursement. 

But  at  the  time  of  this  recorded  interview  with 
Heniker,  though  he  was  at  a  low  ebb,  and  lay  gasp- 


2  24  BENDISH 

ing,  derelict  on  the  sands,  he  had  cast  his  eye  upon 
a  way  of  escape.  To  bolt  from  his  ennui  would  not 
do:  he  knew  that.  That  would  only  mean  dragging 
it  about  with  him.  But  a  pursuit  with  zest  might 
enhearten  him  to  do  what  had  to  be  done  in  this 
dreary  business  of  politics,  into  which,  he  now  felt, 
he  had  been  inveigled  by  Poore.  Poore,  confound 
him,  had  played  with  his  emotions — and  so  had 
Georgiana,  and  be  d — d  to  her.  Speechless  with 
rage,  he  saw  these  two  join  the  ranks  of  his  unfriends, 
and  just  as  he  felt  the  cold  of  this  cruel  defection, 
and  while  his  mind,  panic-struck,  was  ranging  the 
universe  for  one  human  heart  left  it  to  stable  in,  it 
lit — in  a  flash — upon  Rose  Pierson's,  and  saw  itself 
stabled  there.  Instantly  the  universe  became  a 
hideous  waste — a  place  of  broken  sepulchres — and 
Golder's  Green  a  City  of  Refuge  again.  Why  it  was 
that  the  glowing  face  and  gracious  form  of  this 
young  woman  rose  before  him  at  the  moment  of 
Heniker's  entry  he  had  no  notion;  but  so  it  was — 
and  his  harangue  about  innate  purity  was  directed, 
of  course,  at  her's,  which  he  intended  to  attack  as 
soon  as  might  be. 

Not,  of  course,  that  he  put  it  so,  or  thought  so  of 
it.  For  the  moment  he  felt  himself  very  simply  like 
a  lost  soul,  and  of  her  bosom  as  his  home.  For  the 
moment  he  knew  not  where  else  to  turn  for  the  love 
and  adoration  which  he  absolutely  must  have  if  life 
was  to  be  Hved  at  all.  For  the  moment  also  the 
security  he  felt  within  the  aura  of  her  gentle  beauty 
was  so  blessed  and  so  healing  that  he  was  as  near 


IN  FLOOD  AND  EBB  225 

loving  her  as  he  had  ever  been  or  ever  could  be. 
But  that  feeUng  was  not  at  all  what  he  understood 
love  to  be.  In  his  own  sense  of  the  term,  he  was 
not  in  love  with  her.  No  passion,  no  need  to  hold, 
was  involved.  He  was  intending  to  go  to  her  for 
the  assurance  that  he  might  have  her  again.  But 
for  that,  she  could  wait  for  him — since  she  would. 

He  did  not,  in  fact,  go,  because  he  was  inter- 
rupted. His  horses  were  at  the  door,  his  boots  and 
spurs  were  on,  when  his  friend  Tom  Moore  came 
bustling  upstairs  and  burst  in  upon  him. 

Bendish  in  a  lightning  glance  saw  that  his  errand 
was  good — in  other  words,  comfortable.  "By  God, 
Bendish,"  was  his  greeting,  "you'll  break  me  heart 
with  pride  and  joy  one  of  these  days  of  grace." 

Bendish  flushed  with  hope.  "WTiy,  Tom,  what's 
the  matter?" 

"The  matter  is  yourself,  me  friend  and  brother — 
elder  brother  in  Apollo  as  you  are.  My  lord — " 
and  he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  frock, 
"I  lay  at  your  feet  the  laurel  crown  in  the  name  of 
the  Camoenae.  Amant  alterna,  does  he  say?  Not 
they!  They're  for  the  best  man  of  his  hands — and 
bedad  'tis  yourself." 

Bendish  was  ridiculously  pleased,  and  quite  un- 
able to  conceal  it.     "You  hke  my — Wanderer?^' 

"Like  ut!"  cried  Tom.  "I've  been  bathing  me 
heart  in  ut.  I've  been  wallowing  in  the  honey  and 
wine  of  ut.  O  fie,  Bendish !  Fie  upon  your  politics 
and  stuff.  'Tis  to  lime  your  wings.  But  this  is  to 
make  you  famous,  don't  you  understand?     Gcrvase's 


226  BENDISH 

Vision  is  a  fine  thing — oh,  I'll  not  turn  me  back  on 
Gervase  Poore.  No,  no,  'tis  a  fervent,  magnificent, 
wrong-headed  young  hobbled  archangel  in  a  two- 
pair  back — and  so  he  always  was  and  will  be.  Set 
him  singing  his  fair  Georgiana  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  he'll  have  the  roof  afire — more  blood  to  his  pas- 
sion !  And  his  politics  are  Hke  a  south-westerly  wind 
— blusterous,  with  a  tingle,  and  a  dash  of  furious 
rain.  Fine,  fine,  fine.  But  for  Parnassus — ^bah! 
You'll  never  find  a  political  poet  above  the  foothills 
of  that  mountain,  except  he's  a  satirist.  Dryden's 
there  safe  enough — I  won't  say  Butler's  far  behind 
him.  In  me  poor  way — hem,  hem!  But  you — with 
your  Wanderer — don't  need  to  scale  the  rocks.  No, 
no, — you  take  the  way  of  the  air — the  eagle's  way. 
Now  see  here,  Bendish — Murray,  the  rogue,  has  put 
his  nose  into  this — sub  rosa,  you  know,  sub  rosa. 
He's  snuffed  the  savoury  gale,  and  he's  agog,  sir. 
Three  thousand  guineas  was  named — three — thou- 
sand— guineas — named  before  me  who  stand  here. 
Take  'em — throw  'em  into  the  draught — fling  'em 
after  the  ivories  at  Crock's — it's  all  one.  You  walk 
before  us  all.  By  God  and  His  blessed  Mother,  me 
friend,  I  never  thought  you  had  it  in  you." 

There  he  stopped,  beaming,  moist  in  the  eye,  a 
blessed  little  visitor  for  any  poet. 

Bendish,  blown  out  of  range  of  his  looking-glass, 
was  much  affected.  He  turned  away  to  conceal  his 
tears.  He  gulped  his  emotion — but  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  speak. 

When  he  did  speak,  he  drew  himself  up,  and  threw 


IN  FLOOD  AND  EBB  227 

his  head  back.  "My  dear  Tom,  you  are  more  than 
kind.  I  am  greatly  touched.  You  are  generous — 
I  was  hardly  prepared  for  such  an  outburst — you 
give  mth  both  hands.  Of  course — I  don't  mind  ad- 
mitting it — to  you — a  great  deal  of  virtue  went  out 
of  me  into  that  thing.  I  had  been  in  love — and  you 
know  what  that  means  as  well  as  I  do.  Never  mind 
how  I  fared — never  mind  the  lady's  pleasure  of  my 
suit — you  know  what  women  are !  There  it  was.  I 
do  think — I  always  did  think — that  there  was  per- 
haps a  something  in  me — God  knows!" 

"It's  a  d — d  fine  poem,"  said  Tom,  having  ex- 
hausted his  superlatives  already. 

"As  for  poHtics  and  all  that,"  Bendish  went  on, 
more  at  his  ease,  "I  give  you  up  politics.  I've  had 
my  say — not  as  I  wished  it.  It's  a  dirty  business, 
and  I'm  glad  to  be  rid  of  it." 

Tom  looked  sharply.  "Oh,  then  you  are  rid  of 
it?  I  thought  you  were  involved  with  Gervase.  I 
heard  you  speak  of  a  Preface." 

But  Bendish  now  had  everything  well  in  hand. 
"There  was  some  thought  of  it.  I  half  promised  him 
something.  I  can  give  it  him,  of  course.  My  opin- 
ions are  exactly  what  they  were.  Poore  is  all  for 
extreme  action,  and  I " 

"I  would  be  for  extreme  unction,  if  I  were  author 
of  The  Wanderer,''  cried  Tom. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Bendish.  "He  shall 
die  with  the  rites  of  the  Church." 

Tom  said  that  he  would  be  writing  the  dear  fellow 
within  a  day  or  two,  and  would  gladly  play  priest 


2  28  BENDISH 

in  so  pious  a  work.  Then  Bendish  proposed  dinner 
together,  and  a  visit  to  Holland  House  afterwards. 
Agreed.  The  chilled  horses  were  sent  back  to  sta- 
ble, and  Rose  Pierson  pigeon-holed  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   LETTER  FROM  GEORGIANA 

Settignano,  December  20th. 

My  dear  Duke, — You  see  that  we  are  by  some  miles 
further  apart,  and  I  have  to  tell  you  that  we  don't  expect  to 
be  in  England  for  some  time.  I  know  that  this  will  grieve 
you,  as  it  does  your  friend;  but  you  are  so  wise  that  you 
can  understand  her  even  when  she  says  nothing.  She  can 
only  tell  you  now  that  it  is  far  better  as  it  is,  and  expect  you 
to  read  what  is  not  there. 

Gervase  is  very  well  and  in  high  spirits  about  his  Vision, 
which  Lord  Bendish  took  with  him  to  England  and  is  to  see 
through  the  press.  Or  rather,  he  was,  but  we  now  hear  that 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  has  it  in  charge,  and  personally  I  am  very 
glad  of  it.  It  should  be  out  very  soon  now.  I  know  that 
you  will  disapprove  of  it — for  it  is  political,  and  you  don't 
think  that  poets  ought  to  interfere  in  politics.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  it  is  sincere.  You  know  Gervase  so  well,  and  love 
him  in  spite  of  his  opinions.  I  think  the  first  part  will  please 
you.  It  is  very  beautiful  and  most  touching.  He  under- 
stands the  poor.  I  don't  myself  know  what  to  say  of  the 
second  part;  but  am  rather  afraid  of  what  the  critics  may  say, 
and  of  what  the  politicians  may  do\  I  know  that  you  will 
be  kind  about  it,  because — perhaps  I  need  not  say  why.  You 
are  our  friend.  I  can  hardly  remember  the  time  when  you 
were  not  my  friend. 

Gervase,  of  course,  was  very  anxious  to  go  to  England 
and  take  the  consequences,  whatever  they  may  be.  I  am 
thankful  to  say  that  I  have  persuaded  him  at  last  to  stay  here. 

229 


230  BENDISH 

The  children  are  so  young  to  travel,  and  I  confess  that  I 
shirk  the  journey  just  now,  for  myself.  But  for  him — though 
I  have  not  told  him  this — it  might  be  dreadful.  I  am  very, 
very  nervous.  He  wrote  his  poem  straight  off,  as  if  with  his 
own  blood.  I  have  never  seen  him  so  possessed;  and  the 
presence  of  Lord  Bendish  was  so  much  provocation  to  him. 
They  excited  each  other.  I  don't  like  Lord  Bendish  at  all, 
and  I  cannot  imagine  that  you  do  either.  I  should  like  to 
know  your  opinion  of  him,  and  dread  what  you  may  think 
of  the  Poem.  All  this  is  a  very  selfish  letter,  but  I  think  you 
will  understand.  If  any  harm  come  to  Gervase  I  shall  be 
very  unhappy.  I  love  him  more  every  day,  but  he  requires 
more  attention  than  the  children.  To  me,  of  course,  nobody 
in  the  world,  or  out  of  it,  could  be  sweeter  or  kinder.  One 
great  friend  comes  near  him.  Between  them  I  shall  be 
spoiled.  But  it  is  what  he  does  to  himself  that  I  fear.  He 
is  unsparing  there.  He  drives  himself  with  whip  and  spur. 
Just  now  he  is  calm  and  happy.  He  goes  into  Florence  every 
day  and  sits  in  front  of  Niobe  and  her  children.  He  is  going 
to  make  a  poem  about  her.  Ah,  he  is  safer  with  the  Greeks 
than  with  the  Anglo-Saxons! 

I  wish,  oh,  how  I  wish  that  you  would  come  to  Florence 
again,  when  you  have  killed  the  Reform  Bill  and  can  be 
spared.  Isn't  it  extraordinary?  Gervase  now  hopes  that 
you  will  kill  it.  You  will  see  why  in  the  Poem.  That  is 
part  of  his  prophecy.  But  seriously,  won't  you  come  and 
see  us?  You  could  hardly  stay  with  us  here,  of  course, 
though  we  have  a  charming  house  by  the  church.  It  is 
called  La  Canonica,  and  belongs  to  the  parroco  of  Settignano. 
There  is  a  garden  looking  right  over  the  Val  d'Arno,  and 
shelter  from  all  the  cold  winds — but  no!  I  can't  see  you  in  it. 
I  don't  know  what  you  would  do  with  Ingles — least  of  all, 
what  Ingles  would  do  with  himself  in  such  a  tiny  house.  He 
would  say,  "I  assure  you.  Madam,  there's  no  place  fit  to 
grill  His  Grace's  cutlet  in" — and  he'd  believe  it.  I  daresay 
it  is  true  too.  We  live  on  macaroni  and  white  cheese,  mostly. 
Gervase  eats  no  meat  at  all.     We  have  had  great  trouble 


A  LETTER  FROM  GEORGIANA     231 

about  the  children's  milk;  but  there  is  a  Princess  Rospigliosi 
in  a  great  villa  near  by,  who  has  a  herd  of  Jersey  cows,  and 
is  very  kind.  We  used  to  meet  her  four  years  ago  when  we 
were  here  with  you — do  you  remember?  And  once  before 
that  (at.  Devonshire  House,  I  think) — still  longer  ago,  in  the 
days  when  my  Gervase  used  to  stand  in  the  street  with  the 
crowd — to  see  me  come  and  go!  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  the 
strange,  beautiful,  dreadful  life  I  have  had!  Thank  God  it 
is  all  safe  now — thank  God  that  all  who  really  are  concerned 
in  it  must  understand.  For  I  am  sure — in  fact,  your  mes- 
senger, and  his  message  from  the  other  world  proved  it — that 
Charles  understood.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  comfort  it 
was  to  me  that  he  should  have  thought  of  me  as  he  did 
towards  the  end.  We  couldn't  possibly  accept  his  gift — 
but  we  took  the  precious  part  of  it. 

Yes,  Duke,  I  am  happy,  and  blessed  among  women — 
please  God  I  may  deserve  it  by  being  a  good  wife  to  Gervase, 
and  mother  to  his  children.  Pray  for  me  always — and  God 
bless  you,  my  best  and  oldest  friend. 

Georgiana. 

P.S.—l  am  worried  about  the  Poem,  and  pray  that  no 
harm  may  come  of  it.  They  may  prosecute!  If  that  happen 
nothing  will  keep  Gervase  here — nothing !  I  detest,  and  dread, 
Lord  Bendish.  I  think  of  him  as  Gervase's  evil  genius— 
and  believe  that  Gervase  begins  to  realise  it.  My  love  to 
any  who  remember  me. 

P.P.S.  (Written  across).— Lord  B.  hates  me.  I  certainly 
hope  he  does. 

The  Duke  stood  at  his  Ubrary  and  tapped  his 
chin  with  this  letter. 

"Bendish!  A  popinjay!  I'll  bleed  him  if  he's 
been  at  her.  There's  something  behind  all  this. 
Now  I'll  write  to  her." 


232  BENDISH 

He  went  to  his  standing  desk,  mended  his  quill, 
and  began.  He  wrote  fast,  in  a  great  sprawUng 
hand. 

Wake  House,  30/^  January. 

My  dear  Georgey— You  write  a  good  letter,  which  I 
understand  very  well.  As  things  are  with  you,  you  are 
perfectly  right  not  to  travel.  God  bless  you  when  the  time 
comes. 

You  may  leave  Master  Bendish  to  me  with  confidence. 
I  know  more  than  you  do  of  the  yoimg  man,  though  I  dare- 
say you  know  more  than  you  see  fit  to  declare.  He's  been 
blazing  about  town  and  country  of  late,  spluttering  froth 
and  folly.  The  women  run  after  him — but  you  know  what 
they  will  do.  If  a  man  is  short  of  a  finger  they  want  him 
for  an  oddity.  They're  collectors,  these  fashionable  women. 
But  Bendish  is  a  very  pretty  fellow,  I'll  allow,  looking  in- 
different well  in  a  flame-coloured  stock.  He's  all  red  politics 
just  now — but  I  hear  that  he's  been  rather  stuffed  in  the 
country.  A  fellow  called  Himt  yoked  him  to  his  car.  That's 
enough  to  turn  a  stouter  stomach  than  Bendish's.  I  saw 
Tom  Moore  at  a  party  the  other  night,  who  prepared  me 
for  a  new  display  of  coxcombical  fireworks.  You're  not  the 
only  owner  of  a  Poet.  Bendish  is  about  to  let  out  in  that 
direction.    Tom  was  bubbling  with  it. 

Now,  Georgey,  I  doubt  your  Mr.  Gervase  has  cooked  him- 
self a  pot  of  trouble.  He's  not  the  first  poet  to  do  that,  nor 
will  you  be  the  first  poet's  wife  to  bum  your  fingers  getting 
it  off  the  fire.  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  him:  you  may  trust 
me.  He  was  never  famous  for  contingency,  I  must  say;  but 
I  should  not  have  suspected  him  of  Bendishry.  We  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see.  His  blessed  Epick  is  not  out  yet,  or 
I  should  have  heard  of  it,  seeing  it's  my  business  to  know 
everything.  I  can  see  very  well  that  you  are  disturbed,  and 
therefore  I  hasten  to  tell  you  that  you  have  no  cause  for  that. 
I'm  nobody  in  the  political  world,  of  course,  being  in  Oppo- 


A  LETTER  FROM  GEORGIANA     233 

sition,  and  likely  to  remain  so  by  all  I  can  see;  but  thank 
God,  I'm  a  somebody  with  the  grandees,  and  by  no  means 
above  a  job  for  my  friends.  I  admire  your  man,  as  you 
know.  He's  a  fine  Don  Quixote  of  a  fellow  and  makes  a 
brave  figure  out  in  the  sun.  He  and  I  used  to  understand 
each  other,  and  so  we  shall  again.  K  he  tilts  against  some 
of  my  xsindmills  I'll  pick  him  up  and  give  him  the  free  run 
of  my  vinegar  and  brown  paper,  but  he'll  know  as  well  as 
you  do  that  I  can't  stop  the  mills  to  oblige  him.  Tell  him 
I  said  so. 

He  stopped  there  in  his  writing,  and  stood  staring 
into  space.  Every  word  he  had  given  her  had  his 
love  behind  it.  He  had  always  loved  her,  and  the 
older  he  grew  (and  he  was  an  old  man  now)  the  more 
he  wanted  her,  and  the  less  able  he  felt  to  cope  with 
desire.  He  told  himseK  that  he  doted — he  said  he 
was  going  to  be  that  unholy  spectacle,  a  fond  old 
impotent.  But  by  that  very  plainness  of  deaUng 
he  knew  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  he  was  not. 

He  resumed  his  pen. 

Georgey — (he  laughed  here  at  his  fondness  for  writing  her 
name.  There  was  a  caress  in  the  act — it  was  like  touching 
her) — Georgey,  do  you  stick  to  him  whatever  happens — 
through  thick  and  thin.  If  he's  going  into  action,  where 
the  stones  and  mud  will  be  flying — trust  him,  believe  in  him. 
You  don't  suppose  that  I've  any  sympathy  with  his  notions 
— I  think  them  all  moonlight — but  they  won't  do  a  ha'porth 
of  harm  to  anybody,  except  himself.  If  there  was  any  \-ice 
in  him  I'd  tell  you,  iDut  I  tell  you,  on  the  contrary,  that  there's 
none — and  you  don't  need  to  be  told  so.  We  must  do  what 
we  can  for  him — give  him  his  head — and  stand  by  with  the 
towel  and  sponge — and  a  basket  for  the  pieces.  Now  don't 
you  lose  heart,  my  dear.     Show  me  the  stuff  you're  made  of. 


234 


BENDISH 


And  let  me  tell  you  this — when  you  and  I  and  he  are  dead 
and  buried — and  your  grandchildren  are  walking  the  woods 
— Gervase's  will  be  a  name  to  conjure  with.  You  believe 
in  Heaven,  and  I  hope  that  I  do.  Well,  then  you'll  know  all 
about  it.  .  .  .  Keep  your  head  up — give  him  of  your  smiles 
and  tears.  He  may  be  a  thundering  fool — but  damme  he's 
an  honest  one. 

He  folded  and  sealed  his  letter. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"the  wanderer" 

"Oh,  my  dearest  Rose,"  writes  Miss  Clara  Smithers  from 
Russell  Square  (in  an  Italian  hand)  to  a  friend  in  the  suburbs, 
"have  you  see  The  Wanderer!  But  of  course  you  have  not. 
It  is  the  very  latest  thing,  and  more  beautiful  than  you  could 
believe.  I  cried  my  eyes  out  over  it  last  night,  and  Mamma 
took  it  out  of  my  hands  as  I  went  upstairs  to  bed.  It  would 
have  been  imder  my  pillow  and  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
dreamed  of  the  Author  all  night.  Poor  Lord  Bendish  (for 
that  is  his  name'),  how  dreadfully  he  must  have  suffered. 
You  feel  that  he  must  have  written  "with  his  hearts  blood. 
Who  she  was  who  caused  him  this  anguish  (so  truly  and  beau- 
tifully described)  I  cannot  divine.  Everybody  is  asking,  and 
the  newspapers  are  full  of  initials  with  dashes  and  stars  after 
them.     But  they  don't  really  know.     I  counted  the  asterisks 

in  three,  and  all  were  different.     Lady  O is  mentioned, 

and  Lady  Hetty  Masters;  but  I  think  myself  that  he  met 
her  abroad.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  feel  sure  that  she  is  English! 
Do  beg  or  borrow  it.  You  will  be  in  agony;  but  such  pain, 
for  another,  is  very  good  for  the  soul,  I  think.  S>Tnpathy 
is  surely  an  angelic  quality.  It  is  the  height  of  fashion;  no 
one  talks  of  anything  else.  The  description  of  the  Colosseum, 
seen  by  the  poet,  through  streaming  tears,  which  he  takes  for 
rain  (the  weeping  of  the  skies),  is  the  most  touching  thing  I 
have  ever  read.  It  can  hardly  be  bought  now,  though  it 
has  only  been  out  a  week.  Mr.  Farrow  (you  know  how 
fashionable  he  is)  paid  three  guineas  for  his  copy — wasn't  it 
impulsive  of  him?  Papa  paid  fifteen  shillings  for  ours,  which 
is  the  proper  price.  Now  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  seen 
Lord  Bendish!    I  am  the  proudest  girl  in  the  Square — 

235 


236  BENDISH 

nobody  else  has  seen  him  in  our  circle.  I  was  with  Mamma 
in  Oxford  Street.  We  went  to  that  nice  woolwork  shop  near 
the  Pantheon,  where  you  get  those  lovely  shades  of  orange 
and  tawny — don't  you  remember  I  had  some  once  before, 
and  did  that  antimacassar  which  Mrs.  Welbore  liked  so  much? 
Well,  we  were  at  the  door  of  the  shop,  matching  our  colours, 
when  the  young  man  said,  'Pardon,  ladies,  but  there  goes 
the  most  famous  poet  in  England.'  I  knew  at  once  who  he 
meant,  and  said,  *  Where?  Where? '  And  then  he  pointed 
him  out,  driving  himself  in  a  phaeton  and  pair.  My  dear, 
he  has  a  divine  face — like  the  Apollo  Belvidere's — ^but  deathly 
pale.  He  wore  an  enormous  white  coat.  He  looks  very 
haughty — but  Oh,  so  sad,  and  so  stem!  .  .  .  When  I  got 
home  I  rushed  to  the  poem  and  read  the  bit  about  the  Colos- 
seum again.  I  could  see  Lord  Bendish  sitting  there,  looking 
at  it  through  his  tears.  It  is  wonderful  how  much  such  an 
experience  helps  one  to  understand  poetry — more  perhaps 
than  actual  acquaintance  would.  I  am  sure  that  if  I  knew 
Lord  Bendish  I  should  lose  my  heart  to  him.  All  ladies  do, 
I  believe, — but  he  is  inconsolable,  they  say,  and  simply  will 
not  talk  about  her.  Mr.  Farrow  told  Mamma  that  if  she  is 
mentioned,  he  simply  looks  at  the  speaker,  and  then  turns 
away  his  head.  Isn't  that  dreadfully  tragic?  He  is  very 
proud,  of  course,  and  she  has  wounded  him  beyond  recovery. 
He  looked  to  me  as  if  he  must  die  young — and  knew  it,  Hke 
Pope's  Achilles.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  he  is  very  much 
like  that  splendid  character.  I  must  say  I  don't  envy  her 
her  feelings  at  this  moment.  How  women  can  be  so  wicked 
I  don't  attempt  to  think.  She  led  him  on,  you  know, 
and  then  rejected  him.  'The  prude  with  Circe's  wile  and 
poisoned  cup,'  he  calls  her  in  one  part.  .  .  .  and  I  don't 
wonder.  ...  I  saw  your  Mr.  Heniker  the  other  day,  look- 
ing very  happy — and  I  wondered.  ..." 

This  letter,  addressed  to  Miss  Rose  Pierson  at 
Golder's  Green,  may  well  have  stirred  emotions  in  a 


"THE  WANDERER"  237 

bosom  charged  with  memories.  It  did.  There  was 
a  moment  when  Miss  Pierson  felt  a  stab  of  surmise 
that  she  herself,  she  the  abandoned  and  long  faith- 
ful, could  be  regarded  as  the  unspeakable  She  of 
her  friend's  abhorrence  and  the  poet's  grief.  And 
there  succeeded  moments  of  pang  when  she  remem- 
bered what  had  been,  and  what  had  promised  to  be 
her  relations  with  this  tormented  poet  and  peer. 
But  Miss  Pierson,  if  I  don't  misread  her,  kept  her 
memories  mostly  in  orderly  cupboards  of  the  mind, 
where  they  lay,  put  up  in  lavender,  for  very  occa- 
sional tender  visitations — and  besides,  her  reason 
told  her  conscience  not  to  be  dismayed.  Really,  she 
had  not  dismissed  Lord  Bendish;  it  had  been  quite 
otherwise.  And  now,  too,  she  had  a  balm  at  hand 
for  any  such  wounds.  For  neither  Miss  Pierson's 
heart,  nor  anybody's  heart,  suburban  or  otherwise, 
is  able  to  stand  quite  still.  You  may  gather  from 
the  fragmentary  ending  of  my  extract  from  her  cor- 
respondence that  she  had  finally  accepted  the  good 
Roger's  homage  and  service;  and  you  will  gather  it 
truly. 

Rose,  therefore,  was  able  to  dismiss  her  reproaches, 
and  put  away  repining.  But  curiosity  remained. 
She  must  by  all  means  see,  hold,  read  The  Wanderer; 
and  by  this  time  of  day  she  had  the  means  of  being 
instantly  gratified.  She  had  learned  much  since  we 
saw  her  last,  tearless  in  her  stricken  grief  and  con- 
stancy. She  had  learned  to  see  herself  in  Mr. 
Roger  Heniker's  eyes,  and  to  be  pleased  with  the 
reflection.     She  had  learned  the  uses  of  the  pout. 


238  BENDISH 

of  the  head  askances,  of  the  "hunching  shoulder"; 
she  had  become  sleek  under  the  adoring  gaze  of  her 
young  flame-headed  lover.  She  knew  very  well 
what  she  could  do  with  hun;  she  enjoyed  her  as- 
sured position  in  the  household,  her  enhancing  as 
a  Well-beloved  in  the  eyes  of  those  to  whom  she 
was  merely  a  niece  or  an  employer.  These  are  les- 
sons easily  learned. 

She  got  her  book,  no  doubt,  and  absorbed  and 
put  it  away,  with  perhaps  a  sigh.  Here  had  been 
indeed  a  lover — on  paper. 

The  first  edition  of  The  Wanderer,  a  Poem,  by 
George,  Lord  Bendish,  Hes,  as  they  say,  before  me. 
It  is  a  quarto  volume  bound  in  green  morocco,  with 
gilt  edges,  and  a  border  of  gold  ohve-leaves  about 
its  side.  In  the  midst  thereof  is  the  Bendish  coat 
and  motto,  surmounted  by  a  baron's  coronet.  It 
has  wide  margins  and  thin-faced  type,  printed  in 
pale  ink.  Much  of  the  deHcate  elegance  of  the  i8th 
century,  fading  but  not  yet  vanished  in  the  early 
19th,  is  upon  the  book,  which  makes  it  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  it  ran  so  passionate  a  career.  Tantaene 
animis  !  we  say.  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  at  all  about 
that. 

It  came  upon  a  London  still  accustomed  to  look 
to  poetry  for  the  nearest  expression  of  the  human 
heart.  One  has  given  up  the  habit  nowadays,  be- 
cause the  heart  of  man  expresses  itself  more  readily 
in  action.  Rhetoric  is  no  longer  relief  to  a  man  in 
love,  and  where  a  man,  wrung  by  emotion,  would 


"THE  WANDERER"  239 

have  cried  himself  to  quietness  in  verse  in  Bendish's 
day,  in  our  own  he  would  probably  trumpet  on  his 
nose  or  run  to  open  the  window.  If  intolerably 
moved  he  might  go  to  Brighton,  or  even  to  Central 
Africa — he  would  not,  I  think,  write  a  long  narrative 
poem  in  terza  rima  all  about  himself;  he  would  not, 
if  he  were  of  Bendish's  degree,  even  write  a  novel. 
But  in  the  eighteen-twenties,  and  eighteen-thirties, 
Society  had  a  sharp  eye  for  the  publishers'  windows; 
and  in  the  year  which  saw  the  Reform  BiU  become 
the  law  it  was  rewarded  by  two  successive  displays. 

The  Wanderer  came  out  first,  and  made  its  author 
a  famous  man.  He  was  already  notorious,  for  the 
Manifesto  to  the  People  of  England  had  seen  to 
that.  The  great  world  and  the  small  aUke  had  read 
the  Manifesto  and  cheered  or  pished  as  might  be. 
He  had,  as  a  fact,  irritated  nearly  everybody  by  it; 
but  everybody  knew  who  Lord  Bendish  was,  and  had, 
as  it  were,  a  skeleton  of  him  in  the  mind's  eye,  ready 
to  be  filled  in  upon  occasion.  The  Wanderer  gave 
occasion,  and  immediately  George  Lord  Bendish 
stood  before  the  town  as  a  young  man  of  tempestu- 
ous passions,  of  sorrows,  of  grandiose  ambitions,  of 
much  miscellaneous  and  elegant  learning,  and  of  an 
eloquence  such  as  had  not  been  heard  in  English 
poetry  since  the  times  of  great  Elizabeth.  So,  at 
least,  it  was  declared. 

The  Wanderer  is  very  eloquent.  His  music  wells 
out  of  him,  now  gushing  forth  with  gurgitations  and 
breaking  spray,  now  streaming  steadily,  now  a 
dropping  fall  of  sound;   but  never  ceasing  to  flow. 


240  BENDISH 

It  handles  the  primal  emotions  in  the  grand  manner; 
it  is  very  dignified  but  persistently  despondent;  it 
deals  with  women  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger;  it 
frequently  appeals  to  Heaven.  It  borrows  largely 
from  Nature  in  her  more  terrific  moods  and  mani- 
festations. Chasms  and  torrents,  rainbows  and  roll- 
ing clouds,  mountain  peaks  and  venerable  towers  on 
the  borders  of  lakes:  these  and  other  splendid  wit- 
nesses assist  at  the  obsequies  of  the  poet's  massacred 
affections.  Italian  skies,  Claude-Lorraine  landscapes, 
with  a  happy  and  brightly-dressed  peasantry  in  the 
foreground,  Michael  Angelo,  the  ruins  of  Rome, 
Vesuvius  and  the-  Island  of  Capri — these  phenomena 
also,  dipped  in  the  heart's  blood,  made  prismatic 
with  the  tears,  reverberating  with  the  sighs  of  a 
most  unhappy  young  man  of  family  and  rank,  are 
more  occasional  accessories  of  the  romantic  funeral 
of  his  passion.  Never,  you  would  have  said,  did  a 
poet  mourn  in  more  splendid  company,  and  never 
the  heartless  dealer  of  the  mortal  blow  produce  a 
greater  cataclysm  in  nature. 

She  is  never  directly  referred  to.  We  hear  that 
her  dwelhng  was  "in  a  sea-girt  paradise,"  and  that 
the  mountains,  like  couchant  lions,  kept  her  secrets 
inviolable.  We  hear  of  her  "slim  and  pardlike 
strength,"  of  her  eyes  "like  the  blue  ice  whose  flame 
is  death."  Her  love  is  fatal,  her  touch  paralyses, 
her  kiss  makes  to  rave.  "In  stature  dainty-small 
like  that  lithe  minion.  Who  wrought  the  ten  years' 
havoc  in  old  Troy" — helps  to  fix  her  for  those  who 
knew  that  she  had  been  Poore's  model  for  his  Helen 


"THE  WANDERER"  241 

in  The  Vision  of  Argos;  but  it  was  not  general  knowl- 
edge in  London  when  the  poem  was  in  everybody's 
mouth,  and  need  never  have  been,  but  for  what  fol- 
lowed later  and  hastened  the  catastrophe  of  this 
narrative.  Rose  Pierson,  who  had  a  painful  interest 
in  The  Wanderer,  would  have  been  httle  the  wiser  if 
she  had  been  told  the  name  of  this  malign  enchant- 
ress. Roger  Heniker,  who  had  guessed  it,  kept  his 
own  counsel.  Whether  Tom  Moore  had  an  inkling 
is  not  to  be  known.  He  met  the  Duke  of  Devizes 
at  a  great  house  not  long  after  publication,  we  hear, 
and  had  a  short  conversation  with  His  Grace.  The 
poem  was  certainly  mentioned  between  them,  and 
Bendish  himself  was,  in  fact,  pointed  out  to  the 
great  man. 

"Ho,"  the  Duke  had  said,  "that's  the  young  man, 
is  it?  "  and  gave  him  a  keen  and  frosty  look.  "  H'm," 
was  his  verdict.  "I  thought  he  was  a  coxcomb. 
But  he  isn't." 

"He  has  genius,  Duke,"  said  Tom,  "and  that's 
rare."    The  Duke  took  snuff. 

"It  may  be — I  don't  know  so  much  about  that 
as  you  do,  Moore.  But  I  do  know  a  puppy  when 
I  see  one."  He  decHned  an  introduction.  It  was 
then  that  Tom  mentioned  his  visit  to  RapaUo  in 
the  spring,  where  he  had  seen  "our  friends  the 
Poores." 

"So  I  hear,"  the  Duke  said — but  no  more.  He 
had  little  doubt  in  his  own  mind  but  that  Master 
Bendish  had  been  making  love  to  Georgey  and  had 
been  snubbed.     Hence  these  melodious  wails.    There 


242  BENDISH 

would  be  wails,  he  judged,  less  melodious  if  Poore 
happened  upon  The  Wanderer. 

As  for  the  noble  author,  his  overweening  success 
by  no  means  corresponded  with  his  inordinate  am- 
bition. He  could,  indeed,  only  be  his  own  tributary, 
and  the  utmost  service  he  could  do  himself  was  to 
spurn  what  the  world  offered  him.  Now  to  do  this 
adequately  and  continuously  it  was  very  necessary 
that  the  world  should  go  on  offering;  and  so  it  did. 
He  used  to  hold  levees  wherever  he  went.  Some 
thought  it  rather  ridiculous,  and  he  said  that  he 
thought  it  so;  but  he  took  it  very  seriously,  and 
liked  it  out  of  measure.  People  were  brought  up  to 
be  presented  to  him,  women  as  well  as  men.  He 
allowed  that  to  be  done.  He  had  extremely  httle 
to  say  to  them,  but  made  great  play  with  scornful 
eyelids,  quivering  nostrils,  and  the  upper  lip  which 
had  reminded  Miss  Smithers  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere. 
Yet  he  knew,  as  well  as  any  royal  personage,  to  a 
hair's  shade,  the  amount  of  deference  that  was  paid 
him,  or  that  was  due,  and  not  Brummell  himself  in 
his  heyday  could  have  been  more  exigent.  At  a 
dinner-party  he  was  mostly  silent;  with  men  about 
him,  unless  they  were  his  intimates  (and  that  means 
his  inferiors),  invariably  so.  He  had  got,  in  fact, 
into  that  sulky  way  of  accepting  homage — as  if  it 
was  long  overdue — which  those  who  never  can  get 
enough  of  it  use  as  a  kind  of  solatium  to  themselves. 
He  took  it  peevishly,  but  always  looked  about  for 
more. 

Yet  he  had  his  troubles,  as  we  all  have — even  in 


"THE  WANDERER"  243 

this  hour  of  apogee.  The  pohticians  pestered  him. 
Mr.  Hunt  was  a  difficult  man  to  shake  o£f.  If  any- 
body could  have  quenched  him  it  would  surely  have 
been'-Bendish,  who  had  the  art  of  the  cut  direct  at 
his  finger-ends.  But  Hunt's  hand  on  the  back  was 
not  to  be  avoided  but  by  flight,  and  it  was  comic  to 
see  the  young  lord's  terror  of  it.  He  fairly  fled  the 
hearty  orator.  Then  there  was  that  infernal  Mani- 
festo to  the  People  of  England.  The  newspapers 
made  play  with  that,  and  the  supply  of  it  seemed 
inexhaustible.  He  had  agents  pretty  well  all  over 
England  buying  it  up.  There's  no  saying  what  that 
cost  him:  Heniker  knew,  who  had  to  find  the  money. 
But  the  atrocious  thing  had  ways  of  its  own.  You 
might  be  about  Leicester  Square  and  Fleet  Street  for 
a  week  and  see  not  one;  and  then  one  fine  day  the 
whole  town  would  seem  fluttering  with  it,  Hke 
Hampstead  on  a  washing  day.  Bendish  was  furious 
— it  wasn't  safe  to  mention  Poore,  or  the  Reform 
Bill,  or  even  Argos  in  these  days. 

Then  again  there  was  The  Vision  of  Revolt  which 
was  printing.  He  took  a  short  way  with  that.  He 
sent  back  the  sheets  as  they  came,  without  looking 
at  them;  but  Leigh  Hunt,  as  we  know,  was  in  charge 
of  that  masterpiece,  and  passed  every  one  of  them 
himself,  unbeknown  to  his  noble  friend. 

He  cancelled  the  Preface,  and  wrote  another, 
which  he  signed,  but  unwillingly.  The  new  Pref- 
ace cost  him  a  good  deal  of  reflection,  for  all  its 
brevity.  "Mr.  Poore,"  it  finally  read,  "is  a  learned 
and  intrepid  explorer  of  English  History,  and  has 


244  BENDISH 

reached  certain  conclusions  which  I  admire.  It  is 
not  for  me  to  speak  of  their  justice  or  reason;  the 
greatest  service  I  can  do  them  is  to  let  them  speak 
for  themselves.  Mr.  Poore,  however,  has  tempted 
me  to  believe  that  a  few  words  from  me  may  serve 
him  for  introduction  into  polite  and  instructed  circles, 
though  I  confess  that  I  never  read  the  work  of  a 
man  who  needed  less  of  his  friends.  My  interest  in 
these  strenuous  pages  is,  I  must  be  allowed  to  say, 
literary  rather  than  speculative.  Mr.  Poore  thinks 
hardly  of  the  institutions  of  his  country,  and  justi- 
fies himself  with  such  vigour  that  I  am  hopeful  at 
least  of  its  literature  so  long  as  he  is  at  hand  to  up- 
hold it.  He  is  both  bard  and  seer,  poet  as  well  as 
politician.  Let  him  take  heart  therefore.  Telis, 
Phcehe,  tuis  lacrymas  ulciscere  nostras! — Bendish." 

It  was  pretty  dexterous,  really.  The  invocation 
of  Apollo  at  the  end  was  as  good  a  thing  as  Bendish 
ever  did.  But  certainly  it  was  offensive,  and  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  that  it  was  not  meant  to  be.  Tom 
Moore,  the  only  person  with  whom  it  was  discussed, 
ventured  a  mild  remonstrance.  "  I  would  expand  it, 
my  dear  Bendish;  upon  my  honour  I  would.  You 
don't  wish  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  a  friend.  Now, 
you  use  the  word  admire  in  the  right  way — but 
surely  you  see  that  its  very  rightness,  its  scrupulos- 
ity, has  a  sting?  Gervase  has  a  quick  temper — he'll 
be  hurt.  I  beseech  you  not  to  admire  his  conclu- 
sions." 

Bendish  was  very  much  pleased.  That  was  the 
sort  of  tribute  he  loved.     "But  that's  just  what  I 


"THE  WANDERER"  245 

do,  Tom.  I  admire,  but  I  don't  applaud.  I  don't 
applaud,  and  I  won't." 

"But  you  did,  my  dear  friend,  you  know  you 
did—" 

"Pooh,"  said  Bendish,  "I  applauded  him,  not  his 
silly  doctrine." 

"Fie,"  cried  Tom,  "fie,  my  dear  soul.  You  are  be- 
littling your  own  generosity.  I  foresee  a  very  peck  of 
trouble  out  of  this.  Better  indeed  have  no  preface 
at  all." 

"There  shall  be  this  preface,"  said  Bendish,  with 
a  heavy  brow,  "or  none  at  all;  and  you'll  find  that 
they  will  prefer  this  one." 

"There's  your  name,  egad,"  Moore  admitted  rue- 
fully. "  It  means  money.  Not  that  Gervase  wants 
the  stuff—" 

"He  wants  readers,  though,  like  every  poet  under 
Heaven,"  said  Bendish,  "and  they'll  read  him  after 
this.     I  flatter  myself  it's  a  provocative  preface." 

"By  the  Lord,  you're  right  there,"  said  the  little 
man. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"the  wanderer"  examined 

The  Duke  read  Bendish's  book,  and  had  no  diffi- 
culty. This  was  his  beloved  Georgey  described  by 
a  candidate  for  the  dog-whip.  His  desire  was  to 
administer  it  himself,  but  he  knew  that  could  not 
be,  since  every  lash  on  the  rascal's  shoulders  would 
flick  those  of  the  slandered  lady.  Bendish,  he  judged, 
had  made  himself  safe,  and  he  had  to  hope  so. 
Should  Poore  catch  sight  of  The  Wanderer  and  get 
an  inkhng  of  the  truth — what  then?  But  Poore 
was  not  suspicious  by  nature,  and  Georgey  might 
be  trusted  to  keep  her  rueful  counsel. 

Meantime  the  town  talked,  and  women's  names 
were  bandied  about  like  shuttlecocks  in  a  country- 
house  on  a  winter's  day.     Certainly  it  had  not  been 

Lady  O ,  it  was  maintained,  for  Bendish  had 

been  seen  since  in  her  box  at  the  Opera.  The  great 
world  had  seen  him  there,  the  lesser  read  it  under 
the  newspaper  asterisks,  which  fell  about  like 
showers  of  meteors  on  the  day  following  publication. 
Could  it  then  have  been  Mrs.  Maynard?  What  was 
to  be  said  of  Mrs.  Joicey?  Her  candidature  was 
warmly  supported  by  her  friends.  The  Duke,  who 
heard  everything,  caught  no  whisper  of  Georgiana's 
name.     All  might  yet  be  well,  he  thought,  if  Tom 

246 


"THE  WANDERER"  EXAMINED  247 

Moore  (whose  knowledge  he  suspected)  could  be 
taught  discretion.  But  to  teach  Tom  had  been  to 
confess  his  own  acquaintance  with  the  truth.  No, 
no,  ngver  that.     The  thing  must  be  risked. 

Not  a  word,  so  far,  from  Florence.  For  the  first 
time  in  these  years  of  dearth  he  was  glad  to  be  with- 
out her  words. 

Six  weeks  or  so  after  this  hue  and  cry  The  Vision 
of  Revolt  appeared,  without  puff  preHminary  or  sub- 
sequent explosion.  It  fell  flat.  Bendish's  Preface 
did  its  work  well.  Here  was  a  poem,  it  said,  which 
had  great  technical  merit.  Leave  out  its  politics 
and  it  will  amuse,  even  move  you.  But  the  public 
is  not  moved  by  poetry  unless  it  has  been  first  moved 
by  the  poet,  and  it  had  never  been  moved  by  Poore. 
There  is  a  technique  also  in  the  conduct  of  fife,  a 
way  of  moving  about,  of  holding  yourself  by  which 
only  you  can  impose  yourself  upon  the  world.  If 
you  write  poetry  in  your  shirt-sleeves  your  poetry 
as  well  as  you  will  want  for  a  coat.  Now  Poore, 
when  he  had  been  in  London,  had  chosen  for  the 
shade.  Holland  House  knew  him  not,  nor  Fops' 
Alley.  He  had  had  no  clubs.  Mr.  Rogers,  insti- 
gated by  Moore,  once  asked  him  to  breakfast,  but 
he  would  not  go.  He  was  employed  by  an  attorney 
in  those  days,  and  so  he  remained  until  chance  threw 
him  into  the  rays  of  Mrs.  Lancelot's  starry  eyes. 
From  that  hour  his  poetical  life  began — a  great 
matter  for  himself,  but  nothing  at  all  to  the  world. 
When  that  hfe  of  his  became  a  great  and  vital  matter 


248  BENDISH 

to  Mrs.  Lancelot,  the  world  still  ignored  him.  Then 
he  ran  away  with  her;  then  came  the  divorce;  but 
even  then — such  was  his  lack  of  imposing  manner — 
his  own  obscurity  was  great  enough  to  enwrap  her 
too.  She  never  Hfted  him  into  notoriety — rather 
she  was  drawn  down  by  him  into  the  shade.  Poems 
appeared  from  time  to  time;  pubHshers  were  found; 
he  may  have  had  a  hundred  readers — we  know  that 
Tom  Moore  was  faithful.  It  was  through  Tom  that 
Bendish  had  been  struck  by  him.  But,  as  has  been 
seen,  he  had  not  been  able  to  impose  upon  the  sen- 
sitive Bendish  for  long.  Bendish  had  wearied  of 
him,  and  now  with  a  flack  of  the  fingers  spun  him 
back  into  his  dark. 

The  Vision  of  Revolt  was  for  a  long  time  ineffec- 
tive. Leigh  Hunt  rang  its  praises  in  The  Reformer] 
Tom  was  intoxicated  by  its  power  and  incisive  hand- 
ling and  bubbled  over  with  it  in  private  Hf e.  Socially, 
he  found  it  of  no  use  to  him.  It  was  contemptuously 
rebuked  in  The  Morning  Chronicle  as  the  slaver  from 
the  mouth  of  an  anarchist,  not  noticed  at  all  by  the 
Times  and  Morning  Post.  To  be  sure,  there  were 
the  magazines  and  the  quarterhes  to  come.  These 
might  be  trusted  to  take  toll,  but  they  were  not 
then,  any  more  than  they  are  now,  supported  by  the 
mob ;  and  as  for  the  fashionable,  we  know  that  they 
read  what  they  please,  and  find  in  it  what  they 
expect.  All  might  have  been  well  but  for  trivial 
accidents.  If  Tom  hadn't  been  indiscreet  and  Mr. 
Hunt,  the  orator,  officious,  the  fashionable  world 
had  heard  no  more  of  Georgiana,  nor  the  political 


"THE  WANDERER"  EXAMINED  249 

troubled  itself  with  her  husband;  but  these  things 
will  occur.  As  for  Orator  Hunt,  he  had  his  reasons 
too,  but  they  need  not  concern  us  at  the  moment. 
But  Jom's  intervention  is  another  thing.  It  was 
part  chivalry  and  part  terror.  There  was  none  of 
the  vulgar  "I  happen  to  know  the  truth"  about  it. 
For  he  did  not  know;  he  only  suspected.  Bendish 
had  told  him  nothing,  nor  had  he  dared  to  ask  any- 
thing. But,  putting  two  and  two  together,  he  felt, 
rather  than  was  convinced,  that  he  was  right.  He 
was  not,  however,  angry  with  his  noble  friend,  be- 
cause, being  a  poet  himself,  he  knew  what  these 
things  came  to;  he  knew  (none  better)  the  uses  of  a 
pretty  peg  for  one's  draperies  of  sentiment.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  passionate  to  defend  the  fair  lady, 
and  terrified  lest  her  volcanic  husband  should  come 
home  to  do  it  himself.  If  that  should  happen,  he 
knew  it  would  be  necessary  to  take  a  hne.  Old 
friends  were  best,  and  Bendish  would  have  to  be 
given  the  go-by.  But  please  the  Powers  that  would 
not  happen,  and  lest  it  should  he  went  tip-toe  about 
London  in  these  days,  ready  to  guffaw  any  breath 
of  Georgiana's  name  out  of  house. 

He  then,  fighting,  like  the  butterfly  he  was,  upon 
a  group  at  a  great  house,  found  it  discussing  The 
Wanderer,  and  hovered  to  fisten.  One  said  that  he 
happened  to  know  that  Bendish  had  been  awkwardly 
placed  before  his  journey  abroad.  A  lady's  name, 
never  yet  involved,  was  mentioned,  and  this  lady, 
it  seemed,  had  been  in  Paris  when  Bendish  left 
England.    Now  what  was  to  be  said  to  that? 


250  BENDISH 

This  was  received  with  the  seriousness  it  de- 
manded. The  lady  was  warrantable;  she  would 
have  done  credit  to  any  intrigue.  She  was  mar- 
ried; she  had  birth.  She  had  not  much  beauty,  it 
was  true — ^but  what  was  that?  Instances  were  cited, 
from  Queen  Margot  to  Madame  de  Stael.  It  was 
contended  that  "The  Wanderer"  never  spoke  of  his 
Circe's  beauty.  Then  Tom  intervened,  with  un- 
fortunate chivalry. 

"But  he  does — and  he  has  reason.  She's  the  most 
lovely  woman  in  England,  and " 

"What!"  they  cried  him.  "She's  in  England, 
then?"    He  was  checked  and  confused. 

"  She  is  not,  then.  But  she  was.  And  while  I'm 
upon  it,  ladies,  I  am  constrained  to  say  that  my 
friend  Lord  Bendish  has  been  carried  away.  I  can 
understand  a  romantic  attachment  as  well  as  any 
man  born;  I  can  understand  a  bitterness  of  resent- 
ment— but  here  the  two  are  not  in  reason.  He  can 
never  have  been  rejected  because  he  can  never  have 
offered— the  thing's  impossible.  So  much  I  must 
say  on  behalf  of  the  lady." 

"Your  exquisite  reason,  Tom?" 

"Ah!"  cried  he,  flushed  with  his  transport,  "but 
a  wife  and  a  mother!  But  a  martyr  herself  to  the 
great  passion!  Oh,  the  thing  is  incredible!  I  have 
never  spoken  to  Bendish  a  word  of  this — beHeve  me. 
I  could  not.  Nor  can  anybody  else  that  I  can  see,  lest 
untold  mischief  be  the  end.  There  are  persons — there 
are  even  personages — who,  if  they  had  an  inkling — 
No  more  of  it.    I  may  have  said  too  much " 


"THE  WANDERER"  EXAMINED  251 

"Tom,"  said  one,  "you  are  warm." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  "I  am  warm — and  yet 
sometimes  my  blood  runs  cold.  The  world  would 
be  the  poorer  by  a  fine  poem,  but  I  could  wish  The 
Wanderer  had  not  been  born."  He  turned  to  the 
young  man  who  had  brought  him  into  this  and  ad- 
monished him  \\'ith  a  wagging  finger.  "Ha\dlot,  let 
me  beg  of  you  to  stop  this  discussion.  It's  a  serious 
matter.  I  will  add  but  this  one  observation.  If 
you  knew  as  much  as  I  do,  you  would — "  But  here 
came  the  most  eloquent  aposiopesis,  surely,  since 
Neptune's  Quos  ego — ;  for  the  httle  man  grew  as 
red  as  a  turkeycock,  stared  with  round  eyes  at  one 
door,  and  fled  out  of  another.  In  that  door  of  entry 
stood,  erect  and  beribboned,  white-headed  and  be- 
whiskered,  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  side  by  side  with  a 
lady,  giver  of  the  feast.  The  cat  was  out  of  the  bag. 
Before  the  rooms  began  to  empty  ever}^body  in  it 
knew  who  Bendish's  Circe  had  been.  That  much 
the  world  was  told,  but  Moore's  indignant  denial  of 
the  fact  was  not  recorded. 

When  that  came  to  the  Duke's  ear,  as  come  it 
did,  his  blue  eyes  ghttered  Kke  frosty  stars,  and  he 
wrote  a  note  to  Bendish. 

"The  Duke  of  Devizes'  compliments  to  Lord  Bendish. 
He  would  be  glad  of  a  few  moments'  conversation  with  his 
lordship  if  he  can  be  allowed,  and  at  any  time  convenient." 

To  that  note  Bendish,  suspecting  nothing,  sent  a 
proper  reply,  and  in  due  course  was  shown  in  to  the 
Duke. 


2  52  BENDISH 

The  Duke  bowed,  but  did  not  offer  his  hand. 

"I  am  much  obHged  to  you  for  coming,"  he  said. 
"There  is  a  private  and  personal  matter  connected 
with  your  recent  pubhcation  which  concerns  me 
nearly." 

"I  am  curious,"  Bendish  said,  "to  know  what 
that  can  possibly  be.  Your  Grace  and  I  move  in 
different  worlds." 

"It's  the  same  world,  I  fancy,"  the  Duke  said, 
"and  it's  a  small  world.  But  this  is  the  matter. 
Gossip  has  lately  been  making  free  with  the  name 
of  a  great  and  dear  friend  of  mine,  a  lady.  Her 
name  is  Mrs.  Poore,  and  she  and  her  husband  and 
family  Hve  at  Rapallo  in  Italy.  Gossip,  mahce, 
slander,  what  you  will,  make  her  conduct  the  turn- 
ing-point of  your  Poem." 

Bendish  drew  himself  up.  "I  must  deny  your 
Grace's  right  to  cross-examine  me,"  he  said,  "but  I 
will  say  this,  that  if  the  lady's  conduct  were  indeed 
the  turning-point  of  my  poem,  it  would  not  have 
been  published  as  such." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  Bendish's  were 
steady.  If  he  was  lying,  he  was  lying  well.  The 
Duke  saw  that  he  would  He  the  thing  out  to  the 
end.     He  bowed  his  head  slightly. 

"I  should  have  expected  such  an  answer.  The 
lady  in  your  Poem  is — imaginary?  That  is  what 
you  would  have  me  understand?" 

"She  is  imaginary,"  said  Bendish. 

The  Duke  held  out  a  couple  of  fingers.  "I  am 
very  much  obhged  to  your  lordship.     The  ascription 


"THE  WANDERER"  EXAMINED  253 

to  my  friend  was  made  explicitly,  and  to  me.  In 
the  absence  of  the  proper  person,  and  as  trustee  of 
an  instrument  of  which  Mrs.  Poore  is  beneficiary, 
I  took  upon  myself  to  apply  immediately  to  the 
fountain-head.  The  slander  once  set  afloat  will  be 
difiicult  to  overtake,  and  I  can  only  hope  that  my 
friend  Poore,  who  is  of  a  headstrong  nature,  won't 
hear  of  it.  I  can,  I  am  sure,  rely  upon  your  lordship 
to  correct  what  is  a  most  unfortunate  and,  I  am  glad 
to  beHeve,  unwarrantable  handling  of  a  lady's  name." 

It  was  Bendish's  turn  to  bow.  "Your  Grace  may 
rest  satisfied  that  I  shall  do  what  becomes  me,"  he 
said.  After  a  few  stiff  phrases  of  a  general  nature 
he  withdrew. 

Now  let  it  be  said  in  justice  to  him  that,  although 
he  lied,  he  did  not  think  that  he  had.  It  is  quite 
true  that  his  trivial  affair  with  Georgiana  had  set 
him  off  poetising,  but  fairly  certain  that  there  was 
no  dehberate  portrait  of  her  in  The  Wanderer.  The 
heartless  enchantress  were  indeed  ludicrous  as  a 
portrait,  and  the  weakness  of  the  poem  really  is  that 
the  occasion  of  all  its  portentous  musings  is  so  con- 
ventional. The  beguilements  of  Circe,  the  disen- 
chantment of  the  youth  were  the  merest  peg  for 
rhetoric.  Italy,  an  atmosphere  of  temperament,  was 
the  real  study:  Italy  was  the  real  heroine,  as  surely 
as  Bendish  was  the  hero. 

But  he  was  uncomfortable.  He  was  disturbed.  A 
bitter  something  surged  up  in  his  heart.  He  had 
been  had  up  like  a  schoolboy  to  the  headmaster's 
study.     He  had  almost  seen  the  birch  in  the  corner, 


254 


BENDISH 


behind  the  great  atlas.  He  hated  the  Duke  more 
than  any  man  living,  and  vowed  to  revenge  himself 
if  he  could.  Physically,  he  was  not  at  all  a  coward; 
but  he  was  impressionable,  like  all  poets,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  he  shook  off  the  foreboding  of 
trouble  which  this  visit  had  given  him.  He  had 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  inflexible  honesty, 
which,  though  he  vowed  that  he  was  not  a  liar, 
made  him  feel  Hke  one.  He  had  a  streak  of  caution 
in  him  too  which  advised  him  to  cast  about  in  all 
directions  for  safety,  for  a  port  of  refuge  should  the 
storm  break  suddenly  upon  him.  He  was  comforted 
by  the  thought  that  he  had  withdrawn  the  preface 
to  Poore's  poem  in  time.  There,  at  least,  was  a 
patch  of  blue  sky.  He  could  not,  then,  be  suddenly 
confronted  by  political  opinions  which  he  had  ceased 
to  hold.  But  for  the  other  matter — for  a  storm 
blown  up  by  his  own  "Wanderer" — he  had  times  of 
feeling  that  he  must  travel  far  if  that  gale  were  to 
be  rode  out.  He  must  wander  indeed,  and  see  the 
world  through  black  and  weeping  glasses.  It  was 
at  such  times  that  the  image  of  Rose  Pierson  rose 
before  him — her  willowy  grace,  the  quick  weaving 
of  her  hands,  her  adoring  and  trustful  eyes.  O  looks 
of  devotion!  O  pure,  sorrowful  mouth!  His  own 
eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  thought  of  her.  His 
gentle,  faithful  Rose!  Thank  God,  there  was  a 
haven  in  her  ever  open  arms.  He  hoarded  her 
deeply  and  snugly  within  himself,  and  when  the 
world  vext  him  used  to  steal  away  and  look  at  his 
treasure  in  secret.     He  got  extraordinary  comfort 


"THE  WANDERER"   EXAMINED  255 

from  her  in  this  way;  but  it  never  occurred  to 
him  to  pay  her  a  visit.  Enough  to  know  that  she 
was  there,  waiting  for  him.  Thank  God  for  good 
women!  His  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  as  he 
breathed  this  prayer. 

But  you  can't  fill  the  pubHc  eye,  and  mouth, 
without  some  annoyance  to  yourself.  Hard  upon 
the  troubles  due  to  The  Watiderer,  came  those  of 
The  Vision.  The  unspeakable  Hunt — the  orator 
and  not  the  poet — blazed  into  speech  about  The 
Vision  of  Revolt,  and  in  defence  of  his  "noble  friend." 
There  were  outrageous  things  in  that  work,  he  said, 
which  made  his  EngHsh  blood  boil.  These  were 
those  notes  already  quoted,  about  ParHament  and 
George  TV.  The  House  of  Commons  was  insulted, 
cried  Mr.  Hunt,  the  person  of  the  Monarch  assailed. 
Could  it  be  said  that  Lord  Bendish  had  set  his  name 
to  such  a  scurrilous  hbel !  Never.  His  lordship  had, 
it  seems,  written  a  preface  to  the  book.  His  lord- 
ship, let  him  tell  them,  had  written  two.  One  he 
had  withdrawn  when  he  had  the  work  before  him,  and 
had  substituted  another.  Let  them  read  before  they 
judged  him.  That  was  a  preface  which  any  lover  of 
literature  might  write  to  a  book  whose  art  he  ad- 
mired while  he  deplored  its  content.  That,  in  truth, 
was  such  a  preface  as  the  author  of  The  Wanderer 
might  furnish  to  a  brother  poet.  It  was  a  task  of 
honour.  His  lordship  had  done  his  duty  scrupu- 
lously. "The  great  service  I  can  do  him,"  said  he, 
"is  to  let  him  speak  for  himself."  There  spoke  the 
man  of  honour,  faithful  to  his  promises  but  resolute 


256  BENDISH 

not  to  endorse  by  any  one  scratch  of  the  pen  the 
reckless  and  impious  reflections  upon  his  country, 
his  King,  and  the  Constitution,  which  Mr.  Poore 
has  not  hesitated,  etc.,  etc.  This  speech  made  up 
in  warmth  for  what  it  lacked  of  matter,  and  received 
a  good  deal  of  comment.  Questions  were  asked  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  offensive  Note  was 
read.  There  was  talk  of  Breach  of  Privilege.  The 
reference  to  King  George  IV.  came  up  for  discussion 
also.  That  was  referred  to  the  Attorney-General 
for  a  report. 

Finally  the  Duke  sent  for  The  Vision  of  Revolt 
and  read  it,  preface  and  all.  Having  done  that,  he 
thought  for  a  Httle,  and  then  he  got  up  and  wrote 
a  short  note.  It  was  addressed  to  the  publisher  of 
the  book,  and  contained  a  confidential  request. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  BUDGET 

I.  Thomas  Moore  to  Gervase  Poore. 

Sloperton,  lofh  March. 
My  Dearest  Gervase, — You  are  a  terror  to  the 
law-abiding,  a  sickness  that  destroyeth  in  the  noon- 
day. 0  sir,  how  did  you  dare  lay  hands  upon  an 
anointed,  withal  a  dead,  king?  It  will  go  hard  with 
you  if  the  poHticians  read  you.  But  there's  worse 
to  come.  When  I  read  your  note  about  the  House 
of  Commons  the  hairs  turned  to  bristles  on  my  back. 
Good  for  you  to  be  in  Italy  with  your  fair  lady  and 
babes  about  you!  Here  at  least  you  have  given  a 
foothold  for  all  parties  to  stand  and  shoot  at  you. 
For  you  have  pleased  devil  a  one,  my  boy — neither 
the  Tories,  since  you  hint  at  worse  than  Reform; 
nor  the  Whigs,  since  you  laugh  at  Reform;  nor  the 
Radicals,  since  you  call  them  sucklings.  Why,  what 
the  devil  would  you  have?  And  to  have  made  a 
Tory  of  our  friend  Bendish!  You  see  he  will  have 
none  of  you.  He  admires,  quotha!  and  fobs  you  off 
with  a  tag  from  the  classics!  There  will  be  a  plank 
loose  in  your  barque,  Gervase,  if  he  turns  rat  so 
soon.  And  if  I  shift  the  metaphor  and  say  there's 
a  screw  loose  in  your  pate,  you'll  forgive  the  freedom 
of  a  friend,  who  loves  the  poet,  and  execrates  the 

257 


2S8  BENDISH 

sansculotte,  and  trembles  for  the  skin  of  the  boldest 
son  of  Priam  that  ever  wooed  Leda's  daughter. 

My  dear,  your  Poem  is  a  fine  thing;  it  is  even 
damned  fine.  It  is  so  fine  indeed  that  you  can  afford 
Bendish's  flouting  preface.  Your  Argos  thrilled  me; 
but  your  Vision  of  England,  gone,  going,  and  to 
come  has  ravished  me  of  my  wits.  I  see,  I  feel,  I 
beHeve,  as  I  read  you.  If  not  thus,  then  not  at  all. 
And  your  tenderness  to  all  objects  of  pity!  Your 
great  dim  (for  you  have  the  sense  of  tears,  Gervase, 
and  be  d — d  to  you),  roUing,  tragic  pageant  sweeps 
by  as  beautiful  or  terrible  a  pastoral  landscape  as 
ever  I  saw  out  of  the  best  of  us — the  very  best. 
'Tis  as  if  Piers  the  Ploughman  informed  CoHn  Clout. 
True,  you  lack  the  Chaucerian  gusto — you  have  no 
breath  left  for  a  frolic  laugh.  When  you  laugh 
there's  a  bitter  ring.  0  man,  your  fellow  in  the 
sun  "without  a  face" — ah,  how  could  you  have  the 
nerve!  And  bedad,  he's  there;  he  was  there,  and 
we  have  him  yet.  But  of  all  your  foregrounds  com- 
mend me  to  Hodge  at  the  blessed  Mass,  dumb  before 
his  wooden  Gods,  while  beyond  him  the  monasteries 
are  tumbhng,  and  the  saints'  bones  Httering  the 
cloister  floors.  For  these  readings  of  the  soul  your 
own  will  live — and  a  fico  for  your  politics. 

Bendish  has  the  pas  of  you,  howsoever.  His 
Wanderer  came  out  a  month  before  you,  and  holds 
the  stage.  Never  was  such  a  scramble  after  a  poem 
before.  Indeed,  the  young  lord  hath  a  perennial 
fount  of  poesy  within  him.  He  has  been  lionised  to 
his  heart's  content.     All  the  pretty  women  aim  to 


A  BUDGET  259 

set  him  wandering  again,  each  in  her  company. 
The  fate  of  Hylas  is  Hke  to  be  his — but  that  he 
has  the  way  of  the  Grand  Turk  with  him.  He  sits 
on  a.  divan,  and  the  candidates  are  brought  up 
by  the  chief  eunuch.  You  would  admire  his  cool 
and  critical  eye.  I  misdoubt  your  opinion  of  The 
Wattderer.  'Twill  be  too  fervent  for  you,  too  tor- 
rential, too  much  informed  with  himself.  You  have 
your  eye  upon  the  object,  he  upon  the  subject  of  all 
verse.  If  he  suffers,  look  you,  Mont  Blanc  has  the 
bellyache.  He  reminds  me  of  the  Jew  in  the  fable, 
who  after  a  supper  of  Hver  and  bacon  was  overtaken 
by  a  thunderstorm  on  his  way  to  bed.  He  quailed 
at  each  crashing  peal,  his  eyes  showed  white,  he 
sweated  in  fear.  "God  of  Israel!"  he  cried  in  his 
anguish,  "what  a  fuss  about  a  little  bit  of  pork!" 
There  you  have  Bendish  confronted  by  the  marvels 
of  Nature.  But  'tis  a  rolling  stream  of  song,  for 
all  that. 

My  salutations  to  your  lady — to  you  all  my  love. 
—Your  friend,  T.  M. 

2.  Gervase  Poore  to  Lord  Bendish. 

Settignano,  215/  March. 
My  dear  Bendish — Your  Preface  to  my  Poem  is 
perfunctory.  You  had  served  me  better  by  none  at 
all.  I  do  not  say,  however,  that  I  am  surprised  by 
your  sudden  coolness  towards  ideas  by  which,  I  re- 
member, you  were  somewhat  suddenly  fired.  I 
have  to  thank  you,  at  any  rate,  for  making  feasible 


26o  BENDISH 

by  your  momentary  enthusiasm  a  Poem  with  whose 
scope  and  definite  predictions  I  have  no  reason  to 
be  dissatisfied;  and  I  may  even  go  so  far  as  to  con- 
gratulate myself  upon  receiving  your  approbation  of 
its  Hterary  merits.  Whether  you  might  have  ac- 
corded it  more  generously  is  a  matter  for  you  to 
reflect  upon.  You  have,  however,  expressed  your- 
self clearly  upon  the  only  side  of  the  book  upon 
which,  I  see,  you  are  capable  of  a  respectable  opin- 
ion. 

I  have  not  yet  seen  your  own  Poem.  I  have 
asked  my  publishers  for  it,  and  don't  doubt  of 
my  admiration  of  it.  It  will  not,  I  assure  you,  be 
swayed  in  any  degree  by  yours  of  mine. — I  am,  yours 
sincerely,  Gervase  Poore. 

The  Right  Honourable 
Lord  Bendish. 

3.  The  Reverend  Sydney  Smith  to  Samuel  Rogers. 

Combe  Florey,  i/^th  March. 

My  dear  Rogers — What  think  you  of  the  Vision 
of  Revolt!  Does  it  urge  your  bile?  Mine  has  got 
into  my  head,  I  can't  see.  I  am  like  Homer's  Hon 
after  a  meal,  or  Dante's  cannibal  Pisan.  My  jaws 
yet  drip  from  the  savoury  entrails.  But  now  I'm 
hungry  for  the  poet's  blood.  We  are  to  lay  him  out 
soon.  I  hear  that  Christopher  North  will  open  the 
ball  in  Maga;  he  is  even  now  whetting  his  glaive. 
Jeffrey,  another  Graffiacane,  will  be  into  him  with 
a  prong.    My  own  weapon  is  the  sabre.    You  may 


A  BUDGET  261 

guess  whether  Murray  gives  me  a  free  hand.  I'll 
show  you  some  of  my  wrist-work  anon.  You  saw 
Leigh  Hunt's  hysterics?  The  other  Hunt — the 
white-hatted  unspeakable — has  taken  the  field  in 
defence  of  his  noble  friend  Bendish.  Terrible  ally! 
But — " ^vvof;  'Ei/uaXi09  kul  re  KTaveoma  KarcKra^'l — 'Tis 
the  fortune  of  war,  and  the  young  man  can't 
have  it  all  his  own  way.  I  say,  "A  plague  on  both 
their  houses" — Bendish  with  his  of  ill-fame  and 
Poore  with  his  Commons  House.  He  has  made  me 
a  man-eater  with  his  confounded  savagery.  You 
have  read  his  Note?  'Tis  undoubtedly  scandalous. 
I  suppose  the  Government  will  prosecute.  Or  will 
the  House  of  Commons  bring  him  to  his  knees?  Or 
Majesty's  self,  like  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  dance 
for  his  head  on  a  charger?  He  wields  an  impartial 
whip,  odd  rot  him.  There's  not  a  shin  in  England 
unoffended,  I  doubt.  I  hear  that  Tom  Moore,  the 
little  Whiteboy,  is  shouting  with  joy — trailing  his 
coat  and  whirling  his  shillelagh.  "Ere  the  King's 
crown  go  down  there  are  crowns  to  be  broke."  Auto 
da  fe,  say  I.  "He  will  hght  this  day  a  candle  in 
England,"  will  he?     He  shall.     We'll  light  him. 

What  says  My  Lady  to  all  this  pother?  Does 
she  ask  Poore  to  breakfast?  Or  is  she  of  my  mind 
who  wish  for  him  for  breakfast? 

The  season  is  wondrous  mild.  Daffodils  begin  to 
peer  already.  But  The  Vision  of  Revolt  engenders 
a  dangerous  heat.  You  might  say  we  were  already 
in  the  Dog  Days.  I  wish  I  hadn't  read  it;  I  wish 
it  hadn't  been  written.     I  wish  the  fair  Georgiana 


262  BENDISH 

had  remained  with  her  Duke.  And  I  wish  that 
I  could  have  written  the  thing  myself. — Sincerely 
yours,  my  dear  Rogers, 

Sydney  Smith. 

4.  Georgiana  Poore  to  the  Duke  of  Devizes. 

Settignano,  12th  March. 
My  dear  Duke — I  long  to  know  what  you  think 
of  Gervase's  Poem,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  does  too, 
though  he  is  nervous.  You  know  how  much  he 
respects  your  opinion.  Lord  Bendish  has  behaved 
very  badly  about  it.  When  he  was  with  us  at  Ra- 
pallo  he  egged  Gervase  on — indeed,  he  is  responsible 
for  the  writing  of  it,  though  it  is  quite  true  that 
Gervase  had  been  reading  and  thinking  English  his- 
tory for  a  long  time.  Then,  when  he  was  at  work, 
something  happened  which  I  can't  write  about, 
even  to  you,  and  Lord  Bendish  went  away.  He  re- 
turned when  the  poem  was  just  upon  finished,  and 
Gervase  read  it  to  him.  Nobody  could  have  been 
more  enthusiastic  than  he  seemed  to  be.  He  under- 
took the  pubHshing,  and  to  write  a  preface — ^which 
I  admit  he  has  done.  But  what  a  preface!  It  had 
been  far  better  if  he  had  done  nothing  at  all.  Ger- 
vase is  very  much  offended  and  has  written  him  a 
good  letter.  We  haven't  seen  Lord  B.'s  Wanderer. 
He  did  not  send  it  to  us,  but  I  think  it  must  be  on 
its  way,  from  our  booksellers.  We  had  no  idea  that 
he  had  written  it,  as  he  said  nothing  of  it  when  he 
returned.     He  must  have  done  it  between  his  visits 


A  BUDGET  263 

to  us,  and  it's  most  odd  that  we  heard  nothing  of 
it,  as  he  is  generally  so  full  of  himself  and  his  own 
feelings. 

You  are  in  the  thick  of  this  endless  Reform,  I 
feel  sure.  How  much  my  thoughts  are  with  you! 
I  remember  so  well  that  night  when  you  were 
mobbed  in  the  street.  I  was  told  of  it  at  a  party — 
and  Gervase  took  me  back  to  Wake  House.  It 
makes  me  very  nervous,  especially  just  now.  I  am 
thankful  that  I  have  Gervase  here,  out  of  harm's 
way.  You  know  of  course  that  he  hopes  you  will 
throw  it  out  of  the  Lords  again!  Extremes  meet! 
I  don't  know  what  I  wish  myself,  except  that  Ger- 
vase would  get  as  tired  of  poHtics  as  I  am.  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  he  has  been  much  less  interested  in 
them  since  his  Vision  is  off  his  hands.  He  is  back 
in  his  Greek  myths  now,  and  reads  his  Aeschylus  all 
day.  He  makes  me  read  with  him  for  an  hour  every 
morning.  I  am  really  beginning  to  know  a  verb 
when  I  see  it  now.  He  is  so  sweet  about  it — not 
naturally  a  patient  man,  but  always  so  with  me. 
But  you  know  what  I  think  about  him!  I  assure 
you  that  you  need  not  urge  me  to  "stick  to  him." 
I  am  a  perfect  limpet. 

When  your  tiresome  politics  are  over,  you  must 
have  a  long  hoUday,  and  I  shall  be  very  much 
offended  if  you  don't  pay  us  a  visit.  Your  godson 
is  going  to  be  tall,  like  his  father.  Gervase  says  he 
is  like  me — and  I  own  he  has  a  round  face.  Except 
for  that  I  see  nothing  but  his  father  in  him.  He  is 
very  masterful,  the  little  monkey. 


264  BENDISH 

The  weather  is  perfect — a  heavenly  mild  Spring. 
The  orchard  below  us  is  full  of  purple  and  red 
anemones.  Yesterday  I  found  the  first  tuHp — a 
dear  Uttle  pointed  bud,  striped  in  red  and  white. 
They  call  it  Bandiera  di  Toscana. 

We  know  quite  a  number  of  people  here  and  in 
Florence.     The  other  evening  at  a  party  at  the  Tor- 

rigianis,  I  met  the  0 s!    I  had  not,  of  course,  seen 

her  since  the  old  days,  and  felt  very  shy.  But  she 
came  up  directly  she  saw  me  and  began  to  talk.  I 
never  Hked  her,  and  don't  find  her  improved  in  ap- 
pearance. She  is  very  large  and  flushed  and  blonde. 
She  talked  a  great  deal  about  Lord  Bendish  and 
The  Wanderer,  and  wanted  to  knovv^  when  and  where 
he  composed  it.  I  couldn't  tell  her.  She  was  rather 
odd  about  it,  I  thought.  She  came  back,  back,  and 
back  to  it.  I  hear  that  the  Willoughbys  are  expected 
— and  the  Hollands  even.  Gervase  has  heard  from 
her — already!  A  very  pleasant  Mr.  Crabb  Robin- 
son paid  us  a  visit,  and  stayed  to  supper.  There  was 
no  meat  for  him,  but  he  pretended  that  he  preferred 
cheese.  He  and  Gervase  talked  about  German 
poetry  all  night.  He  has  not  mastered  the  art  of 
eating  spaghetti  yet,  and  was  wonderfully  involved 
in  it. 

I  hear  the  children,  and  must  fly.  I  daren't  ask 
you  to  write — but  if  you  could — ! — Always  your 
affectionate  friend,  Georgiana. 


A  BUDGET  265 

5.  The  Duke  of  Devizes  to  Georgiana  Poore. 

Private. 

t  Wake  House,  2ird  March. 

M^Y  DEAR  Georgey — I  am  so  driven  that  I  have 
scarcely  a  moment  for  you.  If  you  can  keep  The 
Wanderer  out  of  Gervase's  hands  I  recommend  you 
to  do  so.  The  writer  of  it  is  a  puppy,  though  a 
clever  one.  I  had  a  short  conversation  with  him  the 
other  day.  I  am  afraid  the  truth  is  not  in  him. 
As  for  the  Preface  to  your  blessed  Revolutionary 
Poem,  I  have  Master  B.  on  the  hip,  as  he'll  find  out 
one  of  these  days  if  he  don't  look  out.  You  mustn't 
ask  me  what  I  think  of  the  Vision.  I'll  do  my  best 
for  G.  for  your  sake.  I  hear  of  the  beginnings  of 
conomotion,  and  am  not  surprised.  You  may  think 
what  you  like  of  the  Commons,  but  you're  a  fool  if 
you  write  it  down.  Let  him  keep  out  of  England, 
whatever  he  does.  B.  is  not  worth  his  powder.  He 
may  leave  me  to  dock  his  tail.  I  am  serious  about 
this.  Keep  Gervase  mth  you,  and  keep  The  Wan- 
derer out  of  his  way. 

Don't  expect  me  to  talk  poUtics.  I  am  sick  to 
death  of  them.  Lord  G.  and  his  friends  are  frighten- 
ing King  Billy  out  of  his  wits.  Creevey  tells  me 
that  he's  going  to  be  one  of  the  new  peers — the  slop- 
shop lords  who  are  to  be  brought  out  in  batches  to 
pass  the  Bill.  I  can't  say  yet  whether  our  cock  will 
fight.  It  depends  how  they  press  him.  If  they 
aren't  careful  he'll  up  hackles.  They  have  a  spirit 
in  his  family.     They  all  have  it.     There — no  more 


266  BENDISH 

now.  God  bless  you  and  your  babies.  Nothing 
contents  me  so  much  as  to  know  you  are  happy  and 
a  joy  to  all  who  can  look  upon  you.  No  more  now. 
— Yours,  D- 

6.  Thomas  Moore  to  Gervase  Poore. 

Duke  Street,  T^oth  March. 

My  dear  Boy — I  was  never  more  serious  than  I 
am  now.  The  murder's  out,  I  hear,  and  I  am  to 
beseech  you  by  all  you  hold  sacred — and  I  know 
very  well  what  that  is — to  stay  where  you  are  and 
possess  your  soul.  There's  a  hue  and  cry  after  you. 
I  know  not  from  what  quarter  exactly — ^but  I  learn 
that  there  will  either  be  a  prosecution  by  Informa- 
tion or  a  warrant  from  the  Speaker  to  attach  you 
for  Breach  of  Privilege.  'Tis  those  blessed  Notes 
of  yours.  There  may  be  both,  for  the  Commons 
are  insatiable.  The  Duke  will  do  what  he  can,  of 
course;  but  even  he  cannot  quench  the  Comimons. 

Now  I  know  that  you  will  be  itching  to  be  in 
England;  I  know  what  provocation  you  have  re- 
ceived. The  thing  is  beyond  behef.  I  have  told 
his  Lordship  plainly  what  I  think,  and  you  may  be 
sure  of  your  friends,  and  of  hers.  But  think  of  it, 
Gervase.  Suppose  you  come  home  and  have  him 
out,  there  will  be  a  scandal.  Your  arrest  will  follow 
to  a  certainty — and  where  are  you  then?  Where 
are  your  dear  ones?  It's  sheer  ruination  to  you. 
No,  no,  let  the  unwholesome  scoundrel  alone  in  his 
squalor.  However,  if  you  must  you  must,  and  you 
may  count  upon  me. 


A  BUDGET  267 

I  was  with  the  Duke  last  night.  It  was  at  Bath 
House.  Bendish  was  there  and  bowed  as  he  passed 
us.  He  looked  very  pale — but  was  crowded  about 
by  the  women  in  a  monstrous  way.  Oh,  leave  him 
in  his  bagnio,  for  God's  sake.  Think  of  her,  that 
angel  of  love  and  purity,  think  of  her  babes.  My 
dear  boy,  the  truest  honour  you  can  do  her  is  to 
ignore  the  dirty  dog. — Your  friend,        T.  Moore. 

7.  Gervase  Poore  to  Lord  Bendish. 

Settignano,  15^^  April. 
Mr.  Poore  has  received  The  Wmtderer  and  read 
it.  He  pays  Lord  Bendish  the  ill-merited  courtesy 
of  telHng  him  that  he  starts  this  day  for  London  in 
order  to  administer  public  chastisement  upon  his 
Lordship  as  both  a  Har  and  a  coward. 

8.  Lord  Bendish  to  Thomas  Moore. 

St.  James's,  7///  May. 
Dear  Tom — I  rather  fancy  that  I  may  need  your 
friendly  services  one  day  soon.  Our  common  ac- 
quaintance, Poore  the  Poet,  has  flown,  by  letter,  at 
my  throat  for  some  fancied  slight — probably  he  has 
discovered  that  I  admired  his  wife  and  chooses  not 
to  remember  that  I  am  one  of  many.  At  any  rate, 
he  announces  his  proximate  arrival  in  these  islands 
for  purposes  of  satisfaction — which  I  propose  to 
afford  him.  You  and  I  have  held  many  a  field  to- 
gether, but  not,  I  think,  that  of  dreadful  Ares.     I 


268  BENDISH 

know  nobody  to  whom  I  would  sooner  turn  than 
yourself,  whether  that  god  or  the  C3^rian  Queen 
were  above  the  lists.  I  hope  that  I  may  refer  the 
fire-eater's  friend  to  yourself. — Yours  ever, 

Bendish. 

9.  Thomas  Moore  to  Lord  Bendish. 

Duke  Street,  8//?  May. 
My  dear  Lord — I  regret  infinitely  that  it  is  out 
of  my  power  to  oblige  your  Lordship,  but  not  more 
than  I  regret  the  circumstance.  Mr.  Poore  is  an  old 
and  valued  friend  of  mine,  the  husband  of  a  lady 
whom  I  revere  and  honour  as  far  as  may  be  on  this 
side  idolatry.  He  has,  and  must  on  every  ground 
have  the  first  call  upon  my  countenance,  such  as  it 
is.  To  say  more  would  be  intrusive,  and  imperti- 
nent.— I  have  the  honour  to  be,  my  dear  Lord,  your 
Lordship's  most  obedient  T.  Moore. 

10.  Georgiana  Poore  to  the  Duke  of  Devizes. 

Settignano,  isth  April. 
Dearest  Friend — I  am  in  dreadful  trouble.  A 
terrible  thing  has  happened.  Gervase  received  yes- 
terday a  letter  from  Mr.  Moore,  and,  by  the  same 
post,  Lord  Bendish's  shameful  and  wicked  poem. 
He  read  the  letter  first  and  came  in  to  me  for  the 
poem.  I  saw  immediately  that  something  serious 
had  upset  him.  He  asked  me,  very  quietly,  had  I 
read  The  Wanderer?  I  said  that  I  had  looked  at  it. 
He  said.  Give  it  to  me,  and  took  it  and  read  some  of 


A  BUDGET  269 

it,  standing  by  me.  Then  he  threw  it  down  and 
turned  to  me  where  I  was  sitting.  He  put  his  hands 
on  my  shoulders  and  asked  me  to  tell  him  all.  I 
knew  then  what  he  meant,  and  told  him  everything. 
It  is  true  that  Lord  Bendish  forgot  himself  when  he 
was  with  us  at  Rapallo.  It  was  when  Gervase  was 
working  from  morning  till  night  at  The  Vision  of 
Revolt,  and  I  used  to  see  a  good  deal  of  him.  He  paid 
me  a  great  many  compUments  and  used  to  read  me 
poems  which  might  have  been  about  anybody.  I 
thought  him  very  fooHsh,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  me 
that  he  was  wicked.  I  knew  nothing  about  him 
except  that  he  had  written  a  satire  which  Gervase 
thought  ver}^  good.  And  then  one  morning,  after 
being  silent  for  some  time,  he  suddenly  fell  on  his 
knees  and  tried  to  kiss  my  hands.  I  told  him  what 
I  thought  about  him,  and  he  left  Rapallo  soon  after- 
wards, I  beUeve.  At  all  events  we  saw  nothing  of 
him  until  late  in  the  autumn.  I  said  nothing  to 
Gervase  about  it  because  they  were  rather  leagued 
in  this  pohtical  affair,  and  Gervase  was  very  much 
interested  in  him.  I  should  have  thrown  him  out 
in  his  writing — I  should  have  killed  The  Vision.  I 
acted  for  the  best,  as  I  thought.  Well,  I  told  all 
this  to  Gervase,  who  was  kindness  itself  to  me,  and 
tried  not  to  show  me  how  angry  he  was.  But  of 
course  I  knew.  He  wouldn't  let  me  look  at  the 
book,  or  look  at  any  more  himself,  but  burnt  it 
immediately  on  the  hearth,  and  then  came  back  to 
me  and  kissed  me.  I  cried,  and  he  comforted  me 
and  made  me  feel  braver  and  more  sensible. 


2  yo  BENDISH 

This  morning,  however,  directly  I  was  awake  he 
told  me  that  he  must  go  to  England  and  meet  Lord 
Bendish;  and  now  he  has  gone,  and  I  am  torn  to 
pieces  by  anxiety  and  remorse.  I  am  bitterly  sorry, 
on  every  ground,  that  I  didn't  tell  him  at  once 
about  it.  I  should  have  stopped  The  Vision,  dead, 
I  know,  but  even  that  would  have  been  better  than 
a  duel.  It  was  that  which  deterred  me,  that  and  a 
feeling  that  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  speak  of 
such  a  thing  to  one  I  love  so  much  as  I  love  Gervase. 
You  know  how  difficult  I  find  it  to  speak  about  my 
feehngs.  It  is  a  great  fault  of  mine.  But  it  all 
seemed  so  trivial  and  absurd — when  one  knows 
what  love  really  is,  or  can  be.  I  simply  forgot  it 
as  soon  as  I  could.  Oh,  do  be  good  to  Gervase!  I 
know  you  will. 

I  am  well  looked  after  here,  and  have  friends, 
very  kind  people,  the  Merediths,  staying  with  me 
in  the  house.  The  Princess  is  close  by,  too,  and 
exceedingly  pleasant  and  friendly.  I  knew  that  I 
couldn't  go  with  him,  and  didn't  even  ask  him  to 
let  me.  But  you  may  imagine  what  my  feelings 
are.  I  can't  sit  still  when  I  think — and  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  not  to  think.  I  made  him  promise 
me  that  he  would  go  to  you  directly  he  reached 
London,  and  I  know  that  he  will.  Oh,  my  dear 
friend,  save  him  for  me  if  you  can.  I  know  by  your 
last  letter  that  he  is  not  safe  in  England;  but  I 
rely  upon  you.  Nobody  could  have  a  better  or 
more  splendid  friend  than  you  are,  and  will  be,  for 
my  sake  and  Gervase's. 


A  BUDGET  271 

The  only  consolation  I  have  is  that  he  will  put 
himself  in  your  hands. 

I  enclose  a  scrap  for  him.  Please  give  it  to  him 
the  moment  it  comes.  He  will  be  with  you  before 
this  reaches  you.     He  will  travel  fast,  I  know. 

If  I  am  never  to  be  happy  again  I  must  remem- 
ber these  four  wonderful  years — no,  this  June  will 
make  it  jive.  And  I  have  his  children  to  care  for 
and  bring  up  as  he  wishes.  Really,  in  myself,  I 
am  wonderfully  well.  I  must  try  to  keep  so  what- 
ever happens. — Always  your  loving,  G. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  AFFAIR 

PoORE  travelled  post,  day  and  night,  without 
stopping  more  than  an  hour  an3rwhere.  He  reached 
London  on  the  2nd  of  May,  and  went  straight  to 
Wake  House.  Had  he  had  eyes  for  anything  but 
one  thing  he  would  have  observed  the  signs  of  the 
times — crowds  in  the  streets,  flags  flying,  bands  bray- 
ing. But  he  noticed  nothing.  He  would  have  been 
prudent,  too,  if  he  had  provided  himself  with  a  pass- 
port in  some  other  name;  but  had  he  done  that  he 
would  not  have  been  Gervase.  One  thought  wasjn 
his  head,  and  one  only.  If  he  had  not  promised  his 
Georgiana,  he  would  have  sought  out  his  enemy, 
travel-stained  as  he  was.  It  did  occur  to  him — the 
Duke  being  out  when  he  arrived — that  he  had  ful- 
filled the  letter  of  the  law,  and  might  now  go  out 
again  and  come  to  grips.  But  the  memory  of 
Georgiana's  wailing  voice,  the  pressure  of  her  arms, 
her  tearful  eyes  and  wet  lips,  came  upon  him  in  a 
v/aking  dream  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  He 
had  a  moment  of  weakness,  and  flung  his  arms  up 
as  he  paced  the  Duke's  library,  but  soon  regained 
possession  of  himself. 

The  Duke  found  him  when  he  came  in  towards 

272 


THE  AFFAIR  273 

the  dusk  of  a  fine  spring  day.  He  had  not  yet  had 
Georgiana's  letter,  but  was  prepared  for  him. 

Now  the  Duke  was  a  man  of  method  as  well  as  of 
busyiess.  The  Reform  Bill  was  before  the  Lords 
for  the  last  time;  every  man's  eye  was  upon  him. 
Messengers  came  and  went;  great  men  sought  m- 
terviews;  king's  servants  brought  letters  and  re- 
ceived answers.  He  came  home  directly  from  the 
House  to  dine,  and  must  return  afterwards.  But  he 
was  ready  with  time  for  Gervase  Poore. 

"Well,  young  gentleman,"  he  said,  "so  you've 
come  over  to  fight?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Gervase.  "What  else  should  I 
do?" 

The  Duke  shrugged.  "Why,  nothing  else.  But 
it's  to  be  a  near-run  thing.  That  damned  Vision  of 
yours  has  emptied  the  hive.  The  Commons  are  out 
for  swarming.  You'll  be  lucky  if  you  bring  your 
meeting  off  before  they  get  you." 

"Prosecution?"  Gervase  asked,  frowning. 

"I  beheve  the  warrant  will  be  out  to-morrow. 
You  see,  they  know  everything.  It's  their  business. 
Directly  that  young  rapscalhon's  book  was  under- 
stood they  thought  you'd  be  at  him.  I  suppose  you 
gave  them  your  own  name  at  Dover?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Gervase.  "I  can't  hide  myself. 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  anything  I've  done." 

"I  daresay  you're  not,  confound  you,"  said  the 
Duke.  "But  this  is  going  to  be  a  savage  business. 
Everybody's  against  you  in  it.  You've  managed  to 
offend  every  son  of  a  gun  in  the  country.     Now, 


274  BENDISH 

you  know,  I  can't  do  very  much.  I  might  see 
Billy,  or  I  might  not.  I  can't  see  him  now,  that's 
certain.  And  if  I  could,  you  can't  expect  much 
allowance  from  a  fellow  if  you  call  his  dead  brother 
a  hog." 

Gervase  laughed.  "That  was  figurative,"  he  said. 
*'l  might  have  chosen  any  king.  Besides — it  was 
illustrative.  I  was  explaining  what  an  ideaHst  would 
have  said." 

"It  will  be  near  enough  for  old  Ellenborough,  I 
fancy,"  the  Duke  said  drily.  "The  tendency  of 
your  book  is,  I  take  leave  to  tell  you,  scandalous 
and  mischievous  too.  You  can't  get  all  these  fine 
things  you  look  for  by  wanting  'em,  and  to  do  your 
best  to  break  up  things  as  they  are  to  make  way  for 
your  things  as  they  might  be  is  nonsense,  and  wicked 
nonsense.  That's  my  opinion.  But  luckily  for  you 
I  think  better  of  you  than  I  do  of  your  writings,  and 
you've  made  an  angel  fall  in  love  with  you.  I'll  do 
what  I  can.  Now  let  me  tell  you  something  about 
Bendish.  I  guessed  at  what  he  had  been  about  the 
moment  I  saw  his  piece,  by  something  Georgey  had 
written  about  him  a  month  or  two  before." 

Poore's  eyes  pierced  him.     "  What  did  she  write?  " 

"She  wrote  that  she  detested  him.  Now,  she 
don't  detest  a  fellow  for  nothing.  I  suppose  you 
didn't  know  that?" 

Poore  grew  red.  "I  didn't  notice  anything  es- 
pecially  " 

"No,  of  course  you  didn't.  You  went  saihng 
about  with  your  head  in  the  moonlight,  looking  at 


THE   AFFAIR  275 

the  stars.  And  while  you  were  making  love  to  CHo 
or  ThaUa  or  one  of  'em,  Bendish  was  making  love  to 
her.  Now  let  me  remind  you  that  that  was  pre- 
cisely what  you  were  doing  once  upon  a  time  when 
poor  Charles  Lancelot  was  building  up  a  career  for 
himself — and  for  her,  mind  you — and  for  her." 

Poore  was  frowning  and  scowling  away,  but  the 
Duke  wouldn't  have  it. 

"None  of  your  sulks,  damn  your  eyes,"  he  said. 
"Hold  your  head  up,  and  confess  like  a  man.  That 
was  the  size  of  it." 

Then  Gervase  held  his  head  up.  "I  confess  it, 
sir.  I  was  engrossed  in  what  I  was  doing — I  did 
forget  her,  God  forgive  me.  But  I  trusted  her — 
and  I  was  right.     She  is  an  angel  of  Heaven." 

"I  know  she  is,"  said  the  Duke,  approving  him. 
But  he  went  on  with  his  chastening.  "It  was  your 
fault  that  that  young  Turk  made  her  uncomfort- 
able, and  went  away  and  spilt  his  silly  feelings  into 
the  inkpot.  You  think  you're  going  to  make  it  up 
to  her  by  tearing  over  Europe  in  order  to  screw  him 
by  the  ear;  but  you're  not.  You're  going  to  make 
things  comfortable  for  yourself;  and  you  leave  her 
behind  in  a  dehcate  state  of  health,  with  two  young 
children,  consumed  with  anxiety  on  your  account. 
You're  a  chivalrous  lover,  ain't  you?" 

Gervase  now  had  tears  in  his  eyes.  "By  Heaven, 
sir,  I'm  a  scoundrel " 

"Oh,  no,  you're  not,"  said  the  Duke.  "You're 
only  a  man — and  any  mother's  son  of  us  would  have 
done  exactly  the  same.     There's  no  man  living  but 


276  BENDISH 

is  a  moral  coward,  and  never  was  one  who  was  fit 
to  tie  a  woman's  shoe-string.  Do  you  think  she 
would  have  fought  a  Bendish  with  all  the  rest  at 
stake?  Not  she!  But  she'll  excuse  you,  and  make 
the  best  of  you,  because  she's  in  love  with  you. 
You  are  a  lucky  young  devil,  let  me  tell  you." 

"You  may  tell  me  what  you  will,  Duke,"  he  said. 
"Nothing  is  too  hard  for  me.  But  if  I  don't  love 
her " 

"Of  course,  you  do,  young  donkey,"  the  Duke 
broke  in.  "That's  your  luck.  Now  go  away  and 
change  your  clothes.  Then  you  shall  dine  with  me; 
and  to-morrow  you  shall  give  Bendish  his  licking. 
He  deserves  it,  and  I  wish  I  could  do  it  for  you. 
But  that  wouldn't  do." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Gervase. 

The  odd  pair  dined,  very  well  contented  with 
each  other.  Politics  were  taken  for  granted,  but 
the  Duke  allowed  himself  the  liberty  of  a  gibe  now 
and  again — and  Poore  had  the  wit  to  see  that  he 
chastened  whom  he  loved.  The  Duke  said  that  the 
Reform  Bill  would  have  to  pass,  because  when  once 
public  agitation  reaches  a  certain  point  of  ascen- 
sion it  must  turn  the  corner  and  run  down  the  other 
side.  There's  no  going  back,  he  said,  because  of  the 
up-surging  from  below.  He  agreed  with  Poore  that 
it  would  bring  about  a  despotism  of  the  trading- 
class  infinitely  more  severe  than  anything  the  old 
order  had  dared  to  exercise;  but,  said  he,  it's  absurd 
to  suppose  that  the  mob  is  any  more  fit  to  rule  itself 


THE  AFFAIR  277 

than  the  grocers  and  bakers  are  to  rule  it.  Anarchy, 
said  Poore,  is  a  matter  of  minding  one's  own  busi- 
ness: so  it  is,  said  the  Duke;  but  who's  to  mind  the 
country's  business?  "You,"  he  said,  "are  about  to 
punch  Bendish's  head,  and  you  say  that  that  is 
your  business.  It  is  also  his,  let  me  tell  you.  There's 
nothing  in  the  world  which  you  can  call  'your  busi- 
ness' which  is  not  at  once  some  other  party's,  and 
the  country's  too.  Now  in  this  affair  of  yours  and 
Bendish's,  the  country's  business  is  to  see  that  you 
don't  do  it — or  should  be.  You  are  only  to  be  an 
anarchist  by  favour  of  the  Administration,  Master 
Poore.  If  it  weren't  for  the  constables  you'd  have 
been  in  prison  years  ago."  Then,  in  the  coolest 
way  in  Hfe,  he  said,  "The  thing  wiU  be  settled  to- 
night or  to-morrow  night." 

"What  thing,  sir?"  Gervase  asked  him. 

"Why,  Reform,"  said  the  Duke.  "I've  settled 
it.  I'm  going  to  disoblige  you.  The  thing  shall  go 
through  this  time." 

Gervase  stared.     ' '  Reform !     It  is  in  your  House ! ' ' 

"It  is — and  has  been  for  two  days." 

"Good  God,  Duke!" 

"What  then,  young  man?" 

Gervase  laughed.  "Why,  I  come  over  here  full 
of  my  affair,  and  press  it  upon  you  as  if  the  world 
swung  by  it — and  you  are  handling  the  destiny  of 
England  at  this  moment.  Lord  God,  what  a  worm 
I  am!" 

''We  are  all  worms,  or  shall  be,"  said  the  Duke. 
"These  things  are  matters  of  relation.  Now  I 
must  be  off." 


278  BENDISH 

Gervase  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Torches  dipped  and  flared;  there  was  upon  the 
dark  that  curious  motthng  which  means  a  con- 
course. 

"Duke,"  he  said,  "there's  a  mob.  Is  it  safe  for 
you?" 

The  Duke  was  putting  letters  into  his  breast- 
pocket. "Eh?  Oh,  they  won't  hurt  me  yet.  It's 
to-morrow  night,  or  even  later,  that  the  trouble 
may  be."  Then  he  went  away  to  his  carriage, 
which  Gervase  saw  was  guarded  by  Life  Guards. 
He  heard  the  roar  of  the  street  as  the  door  was 
opened — flooding  the  house. 

After  dinner  Tom  Moore  was  introduced  and  saw 
his  friend.  He  was  ready  to  back  up  the  quarrel, 
though  he  owned  that  Bendish  had  called  upon  him 
first.  But  Bendish  had  outraged  his  moral  sense. 
Love  is  a  calamity  which  may  befall  any  man,  and 
if  an  honest  man  chance  to  fall  in  love  with  his 
friend's  wife  he  doesn't  write  a  book  about  it.  But 
Bendish,  he  allowed,  was  not  as  other  men.  To 
Bendish  his  pleasure  was  a  law  of  Nature,  undevi- 
ating  and  inevitable.  Woe  betide  the  man  or  woman 
who  interferes  with  laws  of  Nature!  Bendish,  he 
told  Gervase,  would  probably  shoot  him,  unless  he 
were  shot  first.  But  Gervase  said  that  he  didn't 
mean  to  shoot  him.  In  fact,  he  said  that  the  duel 
would  be  entirely  Bendish's  affair.  His  own  affair 
was  to  chastise  Bendish,  publicly  if  possible.  "That," 
cries  Tom,  "leaves  him  no  alternative."  "I  dare- 
say it  doesn't,"  Gervase  said.  Nothing  would  shake 
him  in  his  determination  to  confront  Bendish  pub- 


THE  AFFAIR  279 

licly  and  to  confront  him  to-morrow,  and  that  being 
so,  Tom  was  able  to  help  him.  Bendish,  he  said, 
was  a  late  riser.  He  would  not  breakfast  till  noon, 
or  leave  his  rooms  till  five.  He  usually  went  round 
to  the  Coffee  Tree  at  that  hour,  and  left  it,  to  dress, 
at  half-past  seven.  At  eight  or  half-past  he  would 
dine,  and  after  dinner  God  knew  where  he  might  be. 
He  wrote — when  he  did  write — from  two  in  the 
morning  onwards,  and  might  be  in  bed  by  six. 

Gervase  said  that  he  would  look  out  for  him  at 
five  to-morrow  evening,  and  that  after  that,  when 
he  had  done  with  him,  his  lordship  might  choose  to 
vary  his  habits  for  a  day. 

So  it  befell  that  at  a  quarter-past  five  the  next 
afternoon  Bendish  came  out  into  St.  James's  Street, 
which  was  at  its  fullest.  He  was  accompanied  by 
a  friend,  one  Captain  Count  Wissendonk  of  one  of 
the  Embassies,  a  tall,  gaunt,  high-buttoned  man  of 
shining  cheekbones.  In  the  street  stood  Gervase 
Poore,  unaccompanied;  a  light  switch  in  his  hand, 
a  lady's  riding-whip  it  looked  to  be. 

Bendish  saw  him  immediately,  but  did  not  falter. 
Poore  advanced  to  meet  him  and  put  two  fingers 
to  the  brim  of  his  hat.  Captain  Count  Wissendonk 
stiffened  and  saluted.  Bendish  stiffened  but  did 
not  salute. 

"Lord  Bendish,"  Poore  said,  "a  word  with  you, 
if  you  please." 

Bendish  looked  him  full.  "One  ought  to  be 
enough,"  he  said. 

"One  sentence  will  serve  my  turn,"  said  Gervase. 


28o  BENDISH 

"I  have  to  tell  you  that  you  are  a  coward  and  a 
liar,  and  that  I  intend  to  treat  you  as  such."  Where- 
upon he  struck  him  sharply  across  the  face  with  the 
switch.  Bendish  grew  grey  as  he  stepped  back,  but 
the  streak  stared  white,  and  then  flooded  with  red. 
Captain  Count  Wissendonk  said,  "Ha,  by  God!" 
The  pupils  of  his  pale  eyes  became  specks. 

"By  God,  you  shall  pay  for  that,"  Bendish  said. 
Count  Wissendonk  interposed. 

"On  behalf  of  this  gentleman  I  will  meet  any 
friend  of  yours  you  please,  sir,"  he  said. 

"You  may  wait  upon  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  sir," 
said  Poore,  touched  his  hat  again,  and  walked  slowly 
up  the  hill. 

A  score  of  people  saw  this,  though  it  only  lasted 
twice  as  many  seconds.  But  it  was  all  over  town  in 
an  hour. 

Bendish  carried  it  off  as  well  as  could  be.  He 
went  to  the  Club,  and  played  hazard.  He  paid  two 
calls,  and  visited  Mr.  Murray  in  Albemarle  Street. 
He  dined  out,  and  went  on  to  two  parties  afterwards. 
The  places  simply  blazed  with  rumour,  but  not  of 
him:  nobody  spoke  of  anything  or  thought  of  any- 
thing but  the  Bill.  But  Bendish  couldn't  stand 
much  of  it.  He  thought  they  were  all  occupied 
with  himself,  and  the  second  party  beat  him.  He 
was  acutely  sensitive  to  fine  shades  of  cognition,  and 
what  he  had  suspected  at  his  first  party  became,  to 
him,  clear  as  noonday  at  the  second.  They  eyed 
him,  they  were  at  their  whispers,  his  honour  was  im- 
pugned.    He  couldn't   stand   that.     He  remained. 


THE  AFFAIR  281 

however,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  fighting  with  his 
tremors,  in  a  cold  sweat,  speaking  to  nobody;  and 
then  he  left.  As  he  went  home,  while  all  the  world 
was  saying  that  the  Duke  meant  to  kill  the  Bill,  he 
knew  that  he  must  kill  Poore. 

Long  after  midnight  Captain  Count  Wissendonk 
came  in  to  see  him.  It  appeared  that  there  was  a 
warrant  out  against  Mr.  Poore,  so  anything  that 
were  done  must  be  done  at  once,  within  a  few  hours. 
Would  this  morning  at  seven  be  possible?  The  place 
Wimbledon  Common? 

"Perfectly  possible,"  said  Bendish.  "I  leave 
everything  to  you."  The  Count  glowed  and  shone, 
suppressing  a  strange  gloating  noise  by  swallow- 
ing it. 

"The  arm  is  your  choice,"  Wissendonk  said. 

"I'll  have  pistols,"  said  Bendish. 

The  other  said,  "I  think  you  are  right.  Your 
man  has  a  long  reach." 

"I'm  a  good  marksman,"  said  Bendish.  And 
then,  "There  must  be  an  end  of  this." 

"By  God,"  said  the  Count,  "I  should  think  so." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  MEETING 

The  sun  was  over  the  trees  and  sparkling  upon 
grass  and  leaf  when  Bendish  stept  out  of  his  car- 
riage. Early  as  he  was,  the  adversary  was  before- 
hand. Another  carriage  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
woods,  and  three  gentlemen  apart  from  it  in  con- 
versation. Captain  Count  Wissendonk,  with  a  flat 
oblong  case  under  his  arm,  went  on  to  meet  one  of 
the  party,  a  short  and  plump  gentleman,  black  as 
the  deed  they  purposed  from  the  stock  to  the  toes. 
The  Count,  who  was  tall  and  bony  and  had  a 
bleak  grin  between  his  whiskers,  saluted  him  in 
military  fashion.  "Ah,  good  day  to  you,  me  dear 
Count,"  cried  this  little  man  in  his  rich  voice — "a 
somewhat  chancy  light  we  have,  but  it  betters  every 
moment — and  after  all,  let  us  hope  that  Mistress 
Honour  won't  be  too  thirsty  between  such  cham- 
pions. Bedad,  sir,  the  EngHsh  Parnassus  is  emptied 
this  morning — 'this  pious  morn,'  as  young  Keats 
had  it."  To  this  Count  Wissendonk  had  no  reply 
ready,  being  filled  with  an  awful  solemnity,  except 
that  Lord  Bendish,  his  friend,  had  left  everything 
to  him.  Then  he  observed  the  third  of  Mr.  Moore's 
party,  and  asked  who  that  might  be.  He  was  told 
that  it  was  "me  friend,"  Doctor  Porteous,  who  was 

282 


THE  MEETING  283 

acquainted  with  both  parties,  and  had  come  "for 
fun  as  much  as  anything  else — for  fun  and  the  air 
of  a  fine  spring  morning." 

Thfe  prehminaries  were  not  long  in  doing:  the 
ground  was  set  off,  twenty  paces  run  north  and  south; 
the  pistols  were  loaded;  and  then  each  second  re- 
turned to  his  man.  Moore  found  his  somewhat  agi- 
tated. Gervase  was  no  better  at  waiting  than  most 
of  his  species.  In  imagination  the  thing  was  already 
done  twenty  times  over,  and  he  was  suffering  from 
the  accumulated  nerve-storm  of  so  many  encounters 
with  a  man  who  hated  him.  But  he  was  glad  that 
he  could  go  to  work  and  get  the  thing  over.  He 
took  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  took  them  him- 
self to  the  carriage.  Then  he  returned,  bareheaded, 
and  followed  Tom.  He  and  Bendish,  who  was  pale 
and  impressively  statuesque,  bowed  to  each  other 
and  took  their  places  at  the  mark.  The  signal  was 
to  be  the  fall  of  a  handkerchief,  which  it  was  agreed 
Dr.  Porteous  should  give,  a  common  friend. 

Standing  there  in  the  dewy  mildness,  in  the  sun- 
drenched mist,  Gervase  thought  of  Georgiana  in  her 
Tuscan  garden,  and  felt  the  heavenly  peace  which 
her  love  and  tender  care  had  taught  him.  He  was 
perfectly  calm  now,  and  knew  that  his  hand  was 
steady.  He  let  himself  feel  the  weight  of  the  toy 
in  his  hand,  he  let  his  eye  appraise  the  form  of  the 
young  man  confronted  with  him,  admired  his  round 
and  curly  head,  his  strong  throat,  exposed  almost  to 
the  midriff,  his  square  shoulders  and  pronounced, 
elegant  waist.     "A  fine,  high-bred  young  man,  in- 


284  BENDISH 

deed — but  the  pity  of  his  upstart  soul! "  God  forbid 
that  he  should  blaze  into  so  salient  and  beautiful  a 
thing  and  mar  it  with  a  red  rent.  He  laughed  to 
himself  at  the  same  moment  for  so  rhetorical  a 
thought — and  at  that  moment  also  the  white  patch 
at  the  side  of  them  flashed  downwards. 

As  he  threw  his  arm  up  to  fire  into  the  air  there 
was  a  flash  of  light  before  him,  and  he  felt  a  pang. 
Then  came  the  crack.  He  was  confused — ^by  the 
noise  and  flare,  as  he  thought — he  felt  stupid  and 
discovered  that  his  arm  was  limp  at  his  side,  his 
pistol  on  the  ground.  He  thought  that  his  head  was 
full  of  blood,  and  was  angry  with  himself  for  having 
let  his  weapon  drop.  One  had  to  do  these  things 
properly — he  must  apologise,  he  supposed.  They 
would  have  to  begin  again.  He  stooped  to  pick  up 
the  thing;  and  then  there  was  a  surging  upwards  of 
his  blood,  as  it  were  in  a  huge  curhng  vv^ave;  he  felt 
himself  falling,  and  knew  no  more. 

Bendish  had  shot  him  under  the  shoulder,  clean 
through  the  pectoral  muscle.  While  Dr.  Porteous 
was  kneeling  beside  the  dropt  body,  he  himself  al- 
lowed Count  Wissendonk  to  help  him  on  with  his 
coat  and  waistcoat.  Then  he  said,  "I'm  very  sorry, 
you  know.  But  he  insulted  me  beyond  bearing. 
There  was  no  other  way.  If  I've  killed  him,  the 
poor  fellow  has  only  himself  to  thank.  He  must 
have  known  that  I  had  no  alternative.  He  was  very 
intelhgent.  I'm  sorry  for  his  wife,  but — "  Count 
Wissendonk  said,  "Excuse  me,"  and  left  him  rumi- 
nating. 


THE  MEETING  285 

Moore  and  the  Doctor  were  on  their  knees  by 
the  body.  A  third  had  joined  them,  a  spare  gentle- 
man in  a  blue  coat  and  nankeens  tightly  strapped. 
Recognising  him,  the  Count  drew  himself  up  and 
saluted. 

"Not  fatal,  I  trust,  your  Grace." 

"Can't  say  yet,"  the  Duke  answered. 

Dr.  Porteous  looked  up  and  shook  his  head.  "No, 
no.  He'll  be  crippled  for  a  month  or  two — but  I'll 
engage  that  there's  nothing  vital  been  touched. 
We'll  lift  him  back  directly  I've  strapped  him 
up." 

The  Duke's  keen  eye  was  ranging  the  sun-dappled 
woodlands.  Pausing  in  his  search,  he  spoke  to  the 
Count.  "You  would  do  well  to  take  your  friend  up 
to  town.  If  he  needs  an  explanation  of  my  presence 
you  can  give  it  him.  I  had  some  reason  to  expect 
interruption  of  the  meeting,  and  thought  that  I 
might  be  useful.  That's  all.  As  for  my  friend  here, 
you've  heard  what  the  surgeon  says.  Good  morn- 
ing to  you." 

The  Count  clicked  his  heels  together,  saluted  cere- 
moniously and  returned  to  his  champion.  Bendish 
immediately  asked,  Who  was  the  new-comer;  and 
was  told.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "I  thought  as  much. 
Very  well — since  it  must  be  so." 

Count  Wissendonk  had  no  notion  what  he  meant; 
but  all  the  way  home  Bendish  was  bracing  himself 
for  another  meeting.  It  must  needs  be,  he  knew, 
that  he  and  the  Duke  must  be  confronted  before  the 
day  was  over.     It  seemed  to  him  that  this  early 


286  BENDISH 

scene  was  but  the  prelude  to  a  much  more  momen- 
tous encounter. 

Gervase,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  eagerly 
into  the  sky.  "My  love,"  he  said  faintly,  "my  love, 
it  is  the  morning."  Then  he  shut  them  again  and 
went  to  sleep.  The  doctor  knelt  by  him,  holding 
his  left  wrist  and  watching  him  closely.  The  Duke 
and  Moore  stood  side  by  side;  you  could  hear  the 
champing  of  the  bits  of  the  two  horses.  Then  hght 
steps  were  heard  and  the  Duke  looked  sharply 
round.  Two  men  in  cloaks  and  cocked  hats  were 
coming  over  the  wet  grass,  brushing  through  the  fern. 

They  came  up  to  our  pair,  and  saluted  them. 
"Excuse  me,  gentleman,"  said  one  of  them.  "Mr. 
Gervase  Poore  is  of  your  party,  I  believe." 

"He  is,"  the  Duke  said.  "He's  had  an  accident, 
as  you  see."    The  man  had  recognised  him. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  your  Grace,  very  sorry  indeed." 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  Duke,  "but  it  can't  be 
helped." 

"I  am  very  sorry  on  all  accounts,  your  Grace,"  he 
said  again.  "The  fact  is  that  I  have  a  warrant  here 
for  his  apprehension — and  I've  no  alternative " 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  the  Duke  said — who  had 
come  down  for  the  very  purpose — "Whose  warrant 
have  you  there?" 

"The  Speaker's,  your  Grace — the  Speaker's  of 
the  House  of  Commons."     The  Duke  nodded. 

"Privilege?" 

"Breach  of  Privilege,  your  Grace."  The  Duke 
nodded  again. 


THE  MEETING  287 

"Yes,  Breach  of  Privilege.  Well,  officer,  you  see 
what  has  occurred.  Mr.  Poore  has  no  intention  of 
running  away.  There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  it 
when  he's  fit  to  move.  Now,  if  you'll  serve  your 
warrant  on  one  of  us  two,  we'll  wait  upon  Mr. 
Speaker  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  or  before  the 
magistrate,  as  the  warrant  may  direct.  Perhaps 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  serve  me.  I  am  going  to 
have  Mr.  Poore  carried  to  my  house  at  this  moment 
— so  that's  the  best  thing  I  can  do  for  you.  Now 
what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

The  two  officers  consulted  apart — that  is  to  say, 
they  drew  apart  and  appeared  to  consult;  but  in 
reahty  there  was  no  gainsaying  the  Duke,  as  they 
knew  quite  well.  Returning,  the  warrant  was  handed 
over  without  another  word.  Salutations  were  ex- 
changed, and  the  thing  was  done. 

The  Doctor  and  the  Duke's  footman  Hfted  Ger- 
vase  between  them  and  carried  him  to  the  carriage. 
He  scarcely  woke,  though  he  opened  his  eyes,  recog- 
nised the  Duke,  and  lazily  smiled.  You  saw  the 
twinkhng  gleam  between  his  half-shut  lids.  Tom 
Moore  got  in  beside  him  and  waved  his  hand  to 
the  Duke.  "God  bless  you,  Duke,  for  a  true 
friend." 

"Get  on  with  you,  Moore,"  the  Duke  said,  "and 
eat  a  good  breakfast.  Dr.  Porteous,  I  shall  follow 
you.  I  have  a  horse  here."  So  they  took  Gervase 
back  to  Wake  House,  sleeping  like  a  child. 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  Roger  Heniker,  at 
his  desk  in  Grays  Inn,  received  a  written  message 


288  BENDISH 

from  the  Duke.  "Dear  Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  call 
upon  me  immediately.  I  have  urgent  business  for 
your  attention."  In  half  an  hour  he  was  in  the 
library,  and  received  his  two  fingers  of  greeting. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Heniker.  You  find  me  in  a 
kettle  of  fish.  My  young  friend  Poore,  whom  you 
will  remember,  is  lying  here  shot  through  the  shoulder 
— never  mind  how.  These  things  will  occur.  There 
are  worse  troubles  over  him  than  that,  but  I've  got 
them  in  hand.  Now,  I  want  you  to  post  out  to 
Settignano,  by  Florence,  and  fetch  home  his  wife  and 
children.  She's  in  a  delicate  state  of  health  at  the 
moment;  but  she  can  travel  well  enough  if  she  does 
it  comfortably.  You  shall  see  to  that,  if  you  will, 
taking  your  instructions  from  me.  You  can  take 
my  carriage  with  you,  and  my  horses  as  far  as  Dover. 
After  that,  you  can  post  through  France  and  Savoy 
— and  you  ought  to  be  there  in  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks  at  the  outside.  I'll  give  you  a  draft  on  my 
bankers  which  will  see  you  through  everything. 
Now,  can  you  oblige  me?" 

"Yes,  your  Grace,  I  can,"  said  Roger,  after  a 
moment's  swift  cogitation. 

"I  thought  so,"  the  Duke  said,  highly  pleased  to 
find  that  he  had  not  been  mistaken  in  his  choice. 
"There's  only  one  thing  more  to  say — and  I'm 
afraid  that's  an  idle  thought.  You  can't  take  a 
woman  with  you?  A  mother,  for  instance,  or  a 
sister?     Or  have  you  got  a  wife,  by  chance?" 

Roger  grew  red,  but  his  eyes  twinkled.  "Well, 
no,  sir,  I  have  not — at  the  moment.     But " 


THE  MEETING  289 

"Hey?"  said  the  Duke.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
'but?'" 

Roger  laughed.  "Well,  sir,  I  mean  that — I  have 
hopes — before  long " 

"  Oho,  Master  Heniker,  so  that's  it."  He  thought 
— his  eyes  ghttered.  "Now  look  here,  Heniker. 
Here's  a  little  proposition.  If  you  want  a  galloping 
honeymoon  combined  with  a  pretty  liberal  hft 
towards  expenses,  and  (I'll  add)  if  you're  the  man  I 
take  you  to  be,  you'll  be  off  to  Doctor's  Commons 
hot-foot,  and  you'll  be  married  to-morrow  morning. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  know  your  lady;  but  that's  what 
I  should  do  in  your  place.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

Roger  hesitated  for  one  minute.  Then  he  squared 
his  jaw.     "I'll  do  it,  sir." 

"Bravo!"  said  the  Duke.  "Then  you'll  start- 
say — at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon?  Good.  I'll 
see  to  all  that.  Now  you  had  better  post  off  to 
your  young  lady." 

Roger  left  him  immediately.  The  Duke's  eyes 
were  aflame.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  allowed 
them  to  bum,  as  he  thought — "God  bless  her,  I 
shall  see  her  again  under  my  roof!"  Then  he  shut 
all  down,  and  went  out  to  deal  with  Mr.  Speaker. 

He  heard  that  Gervasc  had  had  some  broth. 
There  was  fever,  and  would  be  more,  but  Dr.  Por- 
teous  had  ordered  Tom  out  of  the  room,  and  had 
now  gone  himself.  He  would  be  back  in  the  after- 
noon, he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE 

When  Bendish  looked  back  and  saw  three  men 
about  his  fallen  adversary  where  there  had  been 
but  two,  he  knew  immediately  who  the  third  was, 
and  what  Destiny  required  of  him.  He  was,  you 
see,  more  than  intelHgent.  He  was  imaginative, 
extremely  impressionable;  he  had  foreknowledge. 
What  he  did  upon  the  memorable  evening  following 
upon  this  early  morning  encounter  was  done  me- 
chanically. He  left  Wimbledon  Common  a  doomed 
man,  and  he  knew  it. 

It's  impossible  to  say  how  these  certainties  come 
upon  men  of  a  certain  temperament.  It  may  be 
that  second  sight  is  given  fitfully,  unaccountably  to 
us;  it  may  be  that  any  one  of  us  is  of  such  weight 
in  the  universe  (though  it  sounds  improbable)  that 
the  indwelling  soul  thereof  is  willing  to  draw  back 
the  curtain  for  a  half-second  or  so,  and  show  time- 
coming  as  time-come.  What  is  certain  is  that  we 
walk,  with  full  consciousness,  into  a  trap  which  we 
know  to  be  a  trap — and  generally  with  a  deadly 
coolness  and  precision.  Even  so  a  man  condemned 
to  death  will  walk  unfalteringly  down  the  flagged 
passage  which  leads  to  death  in  the  yard,  and  notice 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  291 

trifles  as  he  goes — a  patch  of  mildew  on  the  wall,  the 
glittering  of  damp-sweat  there,  perhaps  the  scuttle 
of  a  cockroach — will  feel  the  balm  of  the  outer  air, 
see  the  floating  clouds,  the  bars  of  dust,  the  flight  of 
a  bevy  of  sparrows,  the  twinkling  leaves  of  a  tree, 
even  the  black  apparatus  itself — and  have  no  sensa- 
tion of  panic,  suffer  no  instinctive  shuddering  of  the 
knees,  know  no  mad  impulse  of  flight.  Even  so 
Bendish  made  his  preparations  to  be  in  his  place  in 
the  House  of  Lords  that  evening,  to  speak  upon 
Reform,  and  to  confront  the  supreme  enemy  of  all 
that  he  stood  for  and  was.  For  so  his  instinct  re- 
garded the  Duke  of  Devizes — and  very  reasonably 
after  a  late  interview. 

Second  sight,  or  imagination  (which  is  the  same 
thing)  showed  him  the  scene  beforehand — showed 
him,  indeed,  successive  scenes;  all  he  had  to  do  was 
to  play  the  part  provided.  But  the  play  was  like 
an  Italian  comedy,  which  gives  the  actors  the  situa- 
tion and  leaves  them  to  find  the  words.  He  had  to 
build  up  a  speech  to  suit  the  dramatic  moment — and 
he  could  be  trusted.  He  mastered  himself  with 
great  determination  and  was  able  to  make  himself 
perfect.  He  would  speak  without  a  scrap  of  paper 
in  his  hand,  and  having  said  his  say,  he  would  await 
the  answer  of  his  enemy.  He  knew  what  a  risk 
there  was  in  all  this.  Once  before  he  had  measured 
himself  with  the  Duke,  who  had  ignored  him.  He 
might  very  well  do  it  again,  and  Bendish  thought 
there  was  no  worse  thing  that  he  could  do.  He  felt 
that  he  could  not  survive  that — it  would  be  a  mortal 


292 


BENDISH 


wound.  No,  no:  he  must  so  frame  his  words  as  to 
compel  an  answer  from  the  man.  He  must  be  an- 
swered this  time — it  was  a  matter  of  hfe  and  death. 
With  this  condition  before  his  mind  he  laboured  at 
his  oration.  As  for  Reform,  its  merits  or  demerits, 
I  suppose  he  thought  as  much  about  that  as  he  did 
about  England,  or  Peru,  or  mankind  at  large.  He 
was  past  such  cases;  he  was  concerned  with  his  own 
existence. 

He  had  to  fight,  however,  against  a  persistent  de- 
pression of  spirits,  which  increased  upon  him  as  the 
day  wore  on  and  nobody  came  to  his  door.  This 
silence  of  the  knocker  was  like  an  omen.  It  got  so 
bad  with  him  towards  the  afternoon  that  he  penned 
a  note  to  Roger  Heniker  and  sent  it  by  Mackintosh, 
with  an  invented  matter  of  business  to  be  discussed 
or  foreshadowed.  But  even  Roger  failed  him  to-day. 
An  answer  was  returned  from  Grays  Inn  that  Mr. 
Roger  was  out  of  town  until  further  notice,  but  that 
Mr.  Heniker  senior  would  do  himself  the  honour  of 
waiting  upon  his  Lordship  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  forenoon.  Disloyalty  from  a  servant!  His 
very  household  forsook  him.  He  let  it  lie — the  note 
— where  he  had  let  it  fall.  It  stared  at  him  when  he 
came  back  after  dark,  having  received  his  wages. 

He  dressed  himself  with  care  and  went  down  to 
the  House  at  six  o'clock.  The  Chamber  was  very 
full,  with  ladies  in  the  gallery,  and  the  Commons 
crowded  behind  the  bar.  He  found  a  seat  with 
great  difficulty  and  sat  in  it,  looking  fixedly  before 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  293 

him,  very  conscious  that  he  was  observed  by  many. 
The  Duke  was  in  his  place;  a  noble  lord  was  reit- 
erating amid  sympathetic  murmurs  from  his  friends 
all  the  sound  old  formulae  for  the  Bill  or  against  it — 
all  was  one.  To  Bendish,  sitting  there  with  folded 
arms  and  hat  a-tilt  over  his  eyes,  it  was  incredible 
that  men  could  live  and  move  prosperously  through 
life  uttering  habitually  such  dull  commonplaces,  or 
cheering  each  other  as  they  made  the  stale  old  points. 
As  well  make  backgammon  a  career  at  this  rate  as 
politics.  Did  EngHshmen,  then,  never  grow  up? 
Why,  this  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  cricket  match 
at  Harrow!  The  moment  one  lordship  was  down, 
up  sprang  his  brother,  as  like  him  as  two  peas,  and 
cried  up  the  precise  contrary-,  and  received  precisely 
as  much  applause.  And  the  Duke — who  was  a  man 
— even  Bendish  admitted  it — could  sit  it  out.  He, 
a  man,  condescended  to  work  with  these  worn-out, 
spindle-shanked  tools! 

Scorn  for  his  fellow-Christians  made  him  stronger. 
He  felt  so  very  much  the  better  man. 

At  about  seven  or  half-past  came  his  opportunity. 
There  was  a  lull  in  the  flow  of  orator}^,  while  the 
orators  yawned  behind  their  fingers,  or  looked  about 
them  for  something  to  happen.  Before  they  were 
aware  of  him  Bendish  was  upon  his  feet.  They  knew 
it  first  by  the  thrill  in  the  gallery.  There  was  a 
distinct  rustling;  and  then  white  fingers  ran  along 
the  raihngs  like  a  breaking  wave  on  the  sand. 

He  was  received  in  absolute  silence.  Everybody 
knew  him,  of  course;    everybody  by  this  time  also 


2  94  BENDISH 

knew  that  he  had  fought  and  wounded  Poore  that 
morning — and  why. 

Lord  Bendish  said  that  he  should  trouble  their 
lordships  with  a  very  few  observations,  and  should 
not  have  troubled  them  with  any  had  not  recent 
events,  in  which  he  had  a  small  share,  rendered  it 
desirable  that  he  should  place  beyond  doubt  the 
meaning  of  the  part  he  intended  to  take  in  the  final 
scene  of  this  long  drama.  Whether  or  no  this  par- 
ticular drama,  which  had  lasted  some  fifty  years  or 
more,  were  to  be  of  the  nature  of  a  prologue,  and 
whether  the  stage  were  hereafter  to  be  set  for  tragedy 
or  comedy,  or  broad  farce,  depended,  perhaps,  less 
upon  their  lordships  than  noble  lords  imagiaed.  It 
might  be — and  there  were  some  among  them  who 
proclaimed  it  with  no  doubtful  voice — that  the  au- 
ditory of  to-day  would  be  the  actors  in  that  resulting 
spectacle,  that,  pouring  down  from  the  gallery,  stream- 
ing up  from  the  pit,  they  would  trample  out  the 
candles,  disregard  the  screams  of  the  prompter,  and 
possessing  themselves  of  the  actors'  tinsel  trappings, 
enact  therewith  a  grim  mask  of  anarchy,  for  which 
those  baubles  and  bubbles  of  authority,  in  his  humble 
opinion,  were  very  ill-adapted.  It  might  be,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  spectators,  pit,  gallery  and 
boxes,  would  be  so  spell-bound  by  the  eloquence 
poured  out  upon  them  by  the  present  occupants  of 
the  stage  that  they  would  endure  with  delight  an- 
other fifty  years  of  it — and  if  that  indeed  were  so,  he 
(Lord  Bendish)  could  do  no  more  than  say  with 
Moliere's  protagonist,  Tu  Vas  voulu,  Georges  Dandinl 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  295 

He  begged  leave  to  point  out,  however,  to  their  lord- 
ships upon  this  auspicious  night  when,  for  a  time  at 
least,  the  flood-water  of  rhetoric  was  to  be  let  out 
over  the  land,  the  dilemma  in  which  the  country 
was  placed.  If  the  Bill  should  pass  there  must  be 
a  despotism  inflicted  upon  this  country  more  serious, 
heavier,  more  irrational,  because  proceeding  from 
more  uninstructed  tyrants,  than  we  had  ever  known 
yet;  if  it  should  fail  to  pass  there  would  be  anarchy, 
which  was  in  itself  an  aggravated  despotism,  since 
it  meant  that  every  man  must  be  tyrant  over  him- 
self, and  as  many  more  souls  as  he  could  subdue  with 
his  two  fists.  Upon  which  horn  of  this  dilemma  to 
be  impaled  let  each  noble  lord  decide  for  himself. 
For  his  own  part  (Lord  Bendish),  there  had  been  a 
time  when  he  had  desired  to  see  the  Bill  rejected, 
and  had  found  himself,  however  unaccountably,  on 
the  side  of  the  noble  Duke,  with  whom,  it  seemed, 
the  final  arbitrament  was  allowed  on  all  hands  to 
rest.  He  would  not  now  stay  to  enquire  into  cause 
or  consequence  of  this  enlargement  of  constitutional 
precedent.  For  the  moment  he  would  pass  it  with- 
out further  question.  He  believed  that  he  should 
still  have  the  honour  of  following  his  Grace,  even 
though  rumour  credited  him  with  milder  counsels. 
If  the  noble  Duke  walked  out  of  this  House  it  would 
be  his  privilege,  on  such  an  occasion,  to  walk  behind 
him.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  vote  for  a 
measure  which  proposed  to  confer  legislative  powers 
upon  ignorant  and  prejudiced  masses  of  men;  still 
less  could  he  join  in  an  act  which  would  let  loose 


296  BENDISH 

lawlessness  and  clamour  broadcast  over  the  land. 
If  these  were  his  Grace's  feelings  in  the  matter,  they 
were  his  own  also. 

"My  lords,"  he  concluded,  "I  will  take  no  part 
with  despots  of  any  sort,  nor  however  firmly  rooted 
in  the  land;  and  I  will  do  nothing  whatever  to  foster 
anarchy.  Common  sense  dictates  to  me  the  first 
abstention,  common  honesty  the  other.  Let  a  man 
sow  what  he  has  earned,  and  reap  what  he  has  sown. 
If  my  neighbour  please,  or  have  the  power,  to  grow 
fat  upon  what  is  in  no  sense  his,  it  matters  little  to 
me  whom  he  robs,  whether  he  justify  his  act  by 
right  of  charter  or  right  of  sword.  His  robbery  shall 
hurt  him  the  more,  for  in  the  act  of  robbing  me  of 
my  substance  he  robs  himself  of  his  own  honour.  It 
is  bad  to  be  without  bread,  but  worse  to  die  of  a 
surfeit  of  bread,  I  believe.  I  will  be  no  party  to 
such  things.  If  the  noble  Duke  say  Content  to  this 
Bill  he  is  welcome  to  what  will  ensue;  if  he  say  Not- 
content,  he  must  abide  that  issue  as  best  he  may.  I 
take  my  stand,  myself,  upon  the  right  of  a  plain  man 
to  say,  A  plague  on  both  your  Houses — and  that, 
I  take  leave  to  predict  before  your  Lordships,  may 
be  the  ultimate  utterance  of  the  British  people." 

Bendish  sat  down,  as  he  had  stood  up,  in  the  midst 
of  a  sensible  thrill.  He  had  spoken  in  a  tense  silence; 
the  hum  of  private  conversation  was  heard  all  over 
the  House  immediately  afterwards.  The  Duke  made 
no  sign  of  having  heard  him,  but  now  when  the  gen- 
eral attention  was  shifted  to  the  next  speaker,  and 
before  it  had  wearied  of  him,  he  drew  a  paper  from 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  297 

his  pocket,  folded,  and  addressed  it.  By  and  by  he 
beckoned  to  a  messenger,  and  handed  him  the  paper. 
In  due  course,  too,  the  messenger  approached  Ben- 
dish  and  handed  it  over,  saying,  "From  the  Duke  of 
Devizes,  my  lord."     He  then  withdrew. 

Bendish  opened  it  with  a  beating  heart.  Could 
this  possibly  be  the  prelude  to  mighty  adventure? 
He  felt  that  every  eye  was  upon  him,  and  summoned 
every  nerve  in  his  body  to  his  service.  He  played 
indifiference  well.  There  was  no  fumbling,  no  sha- 
king sign.  His  eyebrows  kept  up — his  eyehds  kept 
scornfully  down,  without  a  tremor.  But  he  knew 
the  paper  in  a  flash.  His  skin  darkened — he  never 
grew  red.  It  was  the  cancelled  preface  to  Poore's 
Vision  of  Revolt.  He  caught  sight — though  it  was 
not  marked — of  the  flaming  paragraph:  "I  know 
not  what  the  issue  of  Mr.  Poore's  Vision  .  .  .  may 
be.  I  abide  by  what  I  have  written,  and  am  pre- 
pared to  defend  it.  My  forefathers  fought  at  Has- 
tings, and  fenced  about  with  steel  the  land  which  was 
others'  inheritance.  ...  If  it  be  my  lot  to  side  with 
those  who  break  down  the  hedges,  so  be  it.  They 
have  served  their  turn,  and  I  for  one  have  done  with 
them.  By  so  much  the  less  as  I  am  a  tenant  in 
capite,  by  so  much  the  more  I  claim  to  be  an  honest 
man.  .  .  .  And  so,"  he  read  on,  "the  whirligig  of 
time  brings  his  revenges." 

Bendish  sweated  as  he  read.  But  his  sweat  ran 
cold  when  it  came  upon  him  with  conviction  that 
this  was  all  the  answer  the  Duke  intended  to  make 
him.     He  fought  with   the  certainty;    ludicrously 


298  BENDISH 

enough,  he  found  himself  telling  himself  that  the 
Duke  was  not  mahgnant.  He  was  a  great  man, 
magnanimous:  he  would  not  humiliate  his  junior. 
He  sat  on,  obstinately,  through  the  wearisomeness 
of  the  debate.  He  was  sickened  to  the  very  soul  of 
politics,  could  not  beheve  in  the  reahty  of  the  nights 
when,  at  Rapallo,  he  and  Poore  had  burned  with 
Reform  like  brands,  and  when  the  smoke  of  Ideahsm, 
Political  Justice,  and  the  Rights  of  Man  had  whirled 
up,  illumined  with  showers  of  sparks,  into  the  con- 
cave of  the  sky.  Yet  these  memories  recurred.  He 
could  not  but  see  Gervase's  fire-hued  face,  and  hear 
the  chanting  of  his  dithyrambs,  as  he  strode  up  and 
down  the  loggia.  And  Georgiana  too  he  saw,  in 
her  white  gown,  bending  her  head  over  her  needle- 
work. And  he  remembered  the  fury  of  his  longing 
for  her,  and  with  hot  anger  her  rejection  of  him  and 
his  homage.  God  of  heaven,  how  all  these  people 
had  injured  him!  And  there  was  the  Duke  stooping 
to  hound  a  young  poet  out  of  England! 

The  speech  of  the  Duke  of  Devizes,  made  towards 
the  end  of  this  great  debate,  belongs  to  history,  and 
not  to  me.  I  shall  only  say  of  it  here  that  it  was 
very  general  in  terms,  and,  far  from  referring  to 
Lord  Bendish,  did  not  hint  at  the  name  of  any  noble 
lord.  The  times  were  momentous,  much  more  mo- 
mentous than  any  noble  lord;  but  Bendish  really 
could  hardly  beheve  that  a  man  could  ignore  him  so 
completely.  He  could  see  the  intention,  in  fact  had 
foreseen  it,  but  that  it  should  succeed  really  passed 
belief.     He  was  shocked  to  the  soul.    Nothing  that 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  299 

had  ever  happened  to  him — not  Georgiana's  sang- 
froid, not  Gervase's  cut  with  the  whip — had  humih- 
ated  him  to  this  point.  Humihated?  Ah,  no — he  was 
annihilated;  he  was  as  good  as  dead.  And  he  was 
impotent:  it  was  absurd  even  to  be  in  a  rage.  He 
couldn't  touch  this  arrogant  chill-blooded  bully, 
who  could  toss  down  a  young  man's  bleeding  heart 
and  grind  it  under  his  heel.  Before  such  atrocious 
cruelty  as  this  the  noblest  under  heaven  must  be 
still.  Tears  scalded  his  eyes  as  he  left  the  House 
and  walked  unmarked  or  unrecognised  into  the  dark. 
He  pushed  his  way  through  the  packed  Palace-yard, 
through  George  Street,  and  into  the  Park.  As  he 
went  on,  he  knew  that  he  was  beaten,  and  that  he 
must  leave  England.  He  could  never  hold  up  his 
head  here  again  while  that  tyrant  lived  to  rule  it 
with  his  whip  and  ramrod  and  intolerable  silence. 
Here  was  a  man  with  whom  he  could  not  measure 
himself.  Your  Poores  he  could  shoot  if  they  got  in 
his  way;  your  Hollands  and  such  he  could  afford  to 
despise.  There  were  plenty  ways  of  deahng  with 
the  Ukes  of  them.  But  this  man  despised  him,  Ben- 
dish,  and  didn't  even  trouble  to  show  that  he  did. 
Nay — crowning  injury! — he  even  forebore  to  show 
it.  For  Bendish  knew  that  if  he  had  thought  it 
worth  his  while  he  could  have  used  that  cancelled 
preface  with  deadly  effect.  He  had  not  cared  to  do 
it.  He  had  not  cared  to  pull  him  out  of  his  ditch 
that  he  might  shoot  him.  No.  He  had  let  him  he 
where  he  had  rolled  himself — lie  there  and  starve 
and    rot.     Bendish    knew    that    he    was    mortally 


300  BENDISH 

wounded.  And  even  in  the  flash  of  cognition  his 
mind  went  hunting — hunting  madly,  far  and  wide, 
for  a  haven. 

What  a  cautious  gambler,  what  a  provident  spend- 
thrift was  Bendish!  Even  as  he  gripped  his  stricken 
breast,  or  cast  up  his  dying  eyes,  he  drew  a  small 
and  tender  hand  within  his  own;  he  turned  his  gaze 
due  north-west.  There,  through  the  violet  dark  of 
the  May  night,  he  descried  the  htten  panes  of  a 
modest  upper  window,  and  above  that  could  make 
out  a  humble  gable  over  which  a  honeysuckle  tossed 
its  tendrils.  Golder's  Green,  seen  from  the  portals 
of  the  House  of  Lords — so  small,  so  tender,  so  snug 
an  abiding-place!  Ah,  there  was  a  merciful  God  in 
heaven.  The  old  fables  had  not  lied.  Domestic 
peace  brooded  under  those  gentle  eaves;  and  within, 
perched  like  a  nesting  bird,  sat  love  with  sheltering 
wings! 

In  the  morning  early  he  would  arise  and  return  to 
his  love.  Not  his  first — no,  not  that — but  his  longest 
and  calmest  and  truest,  because  most  assured,  pas- 
sion. He  would  return  and  say  unto  her,  I  have 
sinned  against  heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no 
more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  beloved;  yet  take  me, 
broken  as  I  am,  for  I  know  that  thou  art  mine. 
And  she  would  hold  out  her  faithful  arms  and  shelter 
him,  and  heal  his  grievous  wounds. 

The  best  part  of  the  night  he  sat  at  his  window 
looking  out  to  the  north  over  the  houses  of  Picca- 
dilly. The  roaring  street,  the  torches,  the  blaring 
horns  proclaimed  Reform  a  thing  well  done.     Surging 


LAST  THROW  BUT  ONE  301 

bands  flocked  down  the  great  road  towards  Wake 
House.  He  heard  the  Duke's  name,  with  curses 
before  it  and  after.  The  Guards  came  jingling  and 
glittering  up  the  hill  from  the  Palace  to  save  the 
fallen  hero's  person.  Bendish  took  no  joy  in  know- 
ing the  hour  of  his  enemy's  adversity.  He  was  be- 
yond this  world;  he  walked  with  Rose  in  an  ItaHan 
garden  where  water  was  falling  on  moss,  and  cypresses 
waved  their  plumy  tops  across  the  stars.  He  had 
outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night.  He  would  watch 
it  out,  see  the  white  dawn  steal  up  over  the  house- 
tops; and  with  the  sun,  with  the  sun — he  would  ride 
to  his  love. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

QUIETUS   FROM  OLD   MR.   HENIKER 

The  sun  was  pretty  high,  broad-splashed  upon 
the  houses  opposite;  it  was  in  fact  ten  of  the  clock 
when  Mr.  Heniker  was  announced.  Bendish,  booted 
for  his  romantic  quest,  and  all  agog  for  it,  was  put 
out.  ''Damn  it,  Mackintosh,  I'm  busy.  I'm  going 
out.     Tell  him  that  I  won't  see  him." 

"Beg  pardon,  my  lord,"  says  Mackintosh,  "but 
Mr.  Heniker's  here."  And  so  he  was,  beaming  in 
the  doorway,  flushed  Hke  a  Ribstone,  bowing,  smi- 
ling and  rubbing  his  comfortable  hands.  This  was 
old  Mr.  Heniker,  of  course,  true  to  his  promise  of 
yesterday.  He  was  resplendent.  His  blue  coat  had 
brass  buttons;  his  hat  was  of  white  beaver;  his 
trousers  were  of  the  Hghtest  drab;  his  stock  was  of 
bird's-eye  blue. 

"Your  lordship  is  for  an  early  canter!  I  saw  the 
horses  and  thought  myself  lucky  to  catch  you.  A 
sweet  spring  morning  for  the  young  adventurers. 
.  .  .  It  ver  et  Venus — hey,  my  lord?  The  old  tag 
comes  back  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  Heniker,"  said  his  lordship  shortly, 
"that's  all  very  well,  and  devihsh  appropriate,  I've 
no  doubt— but  the  fact  is,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Now 
what  can  I  do  for  you  this  morning?" 

302 


QUIETUS  FROM  MR.   HENIKER  303 

The  elderly  gentleman  grew  serious.  ''I  beg  your 
lordship's  pardon,  but  as  you  sent  for  my  son  Roger 
at  midday  yesterday,  and  he  was  not  available — no, 
no,  not  available,  you  know,  for  excellent  reasons — 
if  your  lordship  will  remember,  I  sent  back  word 
that  I  would  call  in  myself " 

Bendish  recollected.  "Ah,  yes,  I  sent  for  Roger 
— that's  quite  true.     They  told  me  he  was  busy." 

Old  Heniker,  bursting  with  his  news,  broke  out 
in  chuckles  and  gasps.  "Ha  ha!  They  might  well 
say  so,  my  lord.  Busy — oh  dear,  oh  dear!  A  young 
man  is  only  as  busy  as  that  once  in  a  lifetime,  my 
lord!  And  not  many  young  professional  men  have 
an  opportunity  to  make  such  a  combination  of  busi- 
ness and  pleasure  as  has  fallen  into  the  way  of  my 
son.  He  would  have  written  to  your  lordship  as  a 
matter  of  course — to  no  man  sooner,  but  that  the 
time  w^as  so  short  as  really  to  forbid  it.  But  as 
things  are,  I  must  take  upon  myself  to  be  the  bearer 
of  his  extraordinary  news — "  But  Bendish,  who 
had  been  pacing  the  room,  broke  in. 

"Yes,  yes,  Heniker.  You  shall  tell  me  what  you 
please  about  him,  but  not  now.  I've  got  an  appohit- 
ment  out  of  town " 

"So  have  I,  my  lord,  so  have  I!"  cried  the  old 
gentleman  in  high  dehght. 

"  I  daresay  you  have.  You  had  better  keep  it " 

"Oh,  I  must  indeed,  my  lord,"  Mr.  Heniker  said, 
preternaturally  serious  all  of  a  sudden.  "Oho!  it 
would  never  do  to  miss  that." 

"Precisely,"  said  Bendish.     "We  will  neither  of 


304 


BENDISH 


us  miss.  Therefore,  if  you'll  allow  me — "  He  took 
up  his  hat,  gloves  and  whip  as  he  spoke,  and  actually- 
made  for  the  door.  Old  Heniker  was  now  concerned, 
and  rather  hurt. 

"I  must  really  point  out  to  your  lordship  that,  at 
some  inconvenience,  I  have  waited  upon  you,  con- 
ceiving that  your  business  with  Roger  was  some- 
what urgent.     I  must  be  allowed  to  say " 

Bendish  reflected  for  a  moment.  "Yes — well,  it 
was  important,  no  doubt.  I  had  intended  to  go 
abroad  again — almost  immediately " 

But  now  Mr.  Heniker  was  not  to  be  controlled. 
"Ha!  and  proposed  to  treat  my  son  with  the  same 
munificent  hospitahty!  My  dear  Lord,  my  dear 
Lord!  God  bless  my  soul,  now,  if  that  is  not  an 
extraordinary  thing!  Why,  my  lord,  you'll  hardly 
beheve  it,  but  at  the  moment  you  were  thinking  so 
generously  of  Roger,  another  noble  gentleman  was 
of  the  same  mind.  But  his  Grace  came  first — 
ha  ha! — "  He  paused,  took  off  his  glasses,  and 
wiped  them  with  his  bandana. 

"Not  only  so,"  he  went  on,  mastering  his  chuckles, 
as  he  blinked  over  his  work  at  the  glasses; — "Not 
only  so,  my  lord,  but  his  Grace  sends  him  out — as 
before — as  before — to  Italy.  Not  only  so — but — as 
before — to  Mrs.  Poore.  For  it  seems  that  Mr. 
Poore  has  come  to  London,  and  is  likely  to  be  very 
much  engaged — ho  ho!  very  particularly  engaged, 
they  whisper  to  me.  So  that's  how  it  is  that  Master 
Roger  couldn't  keep  your  lordship's  appointment — 
nor  indeed  keep  any  appointment  with  your  lord- 


QUIETUS   FROM  MR.   HENIKER  305 

ship  for  some  time  to  come.  But  that's  not  the  best 
of  the  joke  neither." 

It  was  more  than  enough  for  Bendish,  but  there 
was  no  denying  Mr.  Heniker  now. 

"It  seems  that  the  lady's  in  a  delicate  state  of 
health — that  was  his  Grace's  own  expression.  'A 
dehcate  state  of  health,  Heniker,'  he  said  to  Roger. 
'Now  I  suppose,'  he  went  on — 'pon  my  soul,  it's 
rather  good,  as  your  lordship  wWl  see  in  a  moment — 
'Now  I  suppose,'  he  says,  'you  couldn't  manage  to 
take  a  lady  out  with  you — you  haven't  a  mother 
handy,  hey?  Or  a  sister?  Or,'  he  says,  'do  you 
happen  to  be  a  married  man?'  Ho  ho!  A  married 
man."  He  now  looked  at  his  victim,  with  the  ex- 
plosion at  the  ignition  point,  hoping  that  they  might 
burst  together.  But  Bendish,  who  was  quite  in  the 
dark,  was  calm  with  annoyance. 

"Well,  well,  Heniker — do  let's  come  to  the  point." 

"But  that  is  the  point,  my  dear  lord!  'No,'  says 
Roger,  humming  and  hawing,  'not  precisely.'"  A 
volley  escaped  him.  "  Ho ! '  not  precisely,'  the  young 
rascal!  The  Duke  picks  him  up.  '  What  d'ye  mean 
by  that,  Heniker?'  he  says;  and  then  the  murder 
was  out.  Roger  tells  him  all  about  it.  'Not  a  mar- 
ried man  yet,  sir,'  says  he;  'but — well,  I'm  thinking 
of  it.'     Thinking  of  it,  hey?     That  was  a  good  one." 

"Is  he  thinking  of  it?"  Bendish  said  mildly.  "I 
didn't  know." 

Old  Heniker  stared.  "Is  it  possible?  So  good  a 
friend  as  your  lordship?  But  I  must  finish  my  story 
— it's  too  good  to  miss  a  word  of  it.    The  Duke  has 


3o6  BENDISH 

him  by  the  button.  'If  you  take  my  advice,'  he 
says,  'you'll  be  off  to  Doctors'  Commons  after  a 
special  licence,'  he  says;  'and  you'll  go  now.  Then 
you'll  go  down  and  tackle  the  young  lady,  and  she'll 
be  Mrs.  Heniker  by  noon  to-morrow.  Now,  what 
do  you  say  to  that?'  What  indeed!  What  indeed! 
Quick  work,  hey?  But  your  lordship  knows  his 
pace  better  than  I  do?  What  a  man  of  men!  Now 
Roger  don't  take  long  about  it  either.  In  a  thirty 
seconds  he  looks  at  the  Duke.  'I'll  do  it,  sir,'  he 
says;  and  the  Duke  says,  'I  thought  you  would. 
Away  with  you.'  Now,  my  lord,  that's  my  news. 
I'm  actually  on  my  way  to  Golder's  Green " 

Golder's  Green!  Bendish,  as  gray  as  wax,  put  up 
his  hand.     Old  Heniker  stopped  and  blinked  at  him. 

"My  lord " 

"Did  you  say  Golder's  Green?" 

Old  Heniker,  recovered,  was  off  again.  "  Golder's 
Green — exactly.  A  Miss  Pierson,  and  a  very  charm- 
ing young  lady  she  is.  Mrs.  Heniker  and  I  are  de- 
lighted about  her.  Not  very  well  to  do — no,  no. 
Nothing  to  talk  of  in  that  way.  But  a  modest, 
sweet-spoken,  good,  pretty  girl,  living  with  her  aunt, 
who  is  a  clergyman's  widow — and  devoted  to  our 
boy  as  I  could  see  in  a  flash  of  the  eye." 

There  had  been  one  trying  moment  in  his  recital 
when  Bendish  had  felt  like  falKng  on  his  knees  to  this 
old  babbler,  and  beseeching  him  by  his  own  not  to 
forsake  him  utterly.  But  that  was  past.  His  mind 
was  now  empty.  Meantime  his  assassin  was  hard 
at  his  fell  work. 


QUIETUS  FROM  MR.  HENIKER  307 

"Now  it  would  be  a  happy  surprise  for  these  two 
young  people  if  I  could  persuade  your  lordship — 
hey?  Really,  it  would  be  an  act  of  great  condescen- 
sion^^to  grace  the  wedding,  and  throw  the  white 
slipper!  They  start  immediately,  you  must  know, 
in  the  Duke's  own  travelling  carriage — for  Florence. 
Now,  my  lord,  if  you  would  be  so  benevolent " 

I  think  he  would  have  gone  if  he  could — to  have 
stared  Rose  into  stone,  to  have  had  Roger  by  the 
windpipe — yes,  he  would  have  gone  but  for  one 
thing.  It  was  Mr.  Heniker  who  saved  Golder's 
Green  from  a  fracas.  Trapped,  cornered,  deserted 
as  he  was,  Bendish  could  not  let  this  blabbing  old 
fool  into  his  secret.  On  the  contrary,  he  showed 
him  his  stateliest  and  most  urbane. 

"I'm  really  very  sorry,  Heniker.  This  news  of 
yours  is  sudden.  I  wasn't  at  all  prepared  for  it. 
And  I  fear  that  my  appointment  won't  stand  over. 
Be  sure  that  I  wish  Roger  very  well — all  that — more 
than — ^he  deserves.  I  daresay  it  will  turn  out  ex- 
cellently. He  shall  hear  from  me — of  course. 
That's  of  course.  We  are  old  friends — at  least  I 
had  taught  myself  to  beheve  it.  But  it's  a  queer 
world.  I  must  take  your  word  for  the  lady.  A 
Miss  Pierson,  you  say?  And  now,  if  you'll  excuse 
me,  Heniker " 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure!"  said  the  hearty  man,  and 
looked  up  at  the  clock.  "God  bless  my  soul!  I 
haven't  a  moment."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good- 
morning  to  your  lordship — and  many  thanks.  Be 
sure  that  I  shall  give  your  kind  messages  to  my  boy 


3o8  BENDISH 

and  girl — as  indeed  I  may  call  her.  Pray,  pray 
don't  disturb  yourself,  my  lord."  He  bowed  and 
bustled  himself  out.    Bendish  was  alone  indeed. 

He  stood  trembling  for  a  few  moments.  He  heard 
the  sudden  burst  of  music.  The  Guards'  Band  was 
at  the  Palace — the  heartless  world  was  still  twirling 
and  grinning  round  him.  His  trembling  grew  upon 
him.  His  hand  mechanically  felt  the  knob  of  a 
drawer  in  his  writing  table,  pulled  the  drawer  open, 
and  closed  about  the  silver-handled  pistol  which 
always  lay  there.  In  the  act  he  looked  up,  and  in 
the  mirror  opposite  had  a  sight  of  his  own  shocked 
and  wounded  face.  That  sobered  him.  He  flicked 
his  hand  out  of  the  drawer  as  if  some  one  had  caught 
him  unawares,  and  slammed  it  to.  Mackintosh  en- 
tered the  room. 

"I  beg  pardon,  my  lord,  but  the  horses " 

Lord  Bendish  Ufted  his  head,  and  looked  at  him. 
"I  shan't  want  the  horses.     I'm  not  riding." 

"Very  good,  my  lord."  But  the  man  remained 
in  the  room.     "I  beg  pardon,  my  lord " 

"Well,  Mackintosh,  what  is  it?" 

"I  was  about  to  say,  my  lord,  that  if  I  could  be 
spared,  I  should  be  glad  of  a  hour  or  two  this  fore- 
noon. Mr.  Heniker,  my  lord — Mr.  Roger,  I  should 
say — is  about  to  be  married  to  that  Miss  Pierson; 
and  he  have  been  good  enough  to  say  that  he  should 
be  glad  of  my  presence.     So  I  thought  ..." 

Bendish  broke  down.  Mackintosh  was  alarmed. 
*'My    lord — oh,    my    lord — "     The    young    man 


QUIETUS  FROM  MR,  HENIKER  309 

wrenched  himself  about,  faced  the  window,  and 
steadied  himself  by  leaning  upon  the  sill. 

"Look  here.  Mackintosh  ...  I  shall  be  obhged 
if  you'll  stay  here  for  a  Httle.  .  .  .  The  fact  is,  I'm 
not  at  all  well.  If  you  could  make  it  convenient 
...  I  should  be  grateful.  ..." 

"Very  good,  my  lord,"  said  Mackintosh,  and  re- 
mained, quiet  but  hovering,  in  the  room. 

It  had  really  come  to  that. 

On  a  farmhouse  parlour  window,  one  summer 
afternoon,  I  was  witness  of  a  httle  paraphrase  of 
our  world's  doings,  done  by  microcosmic  actors. 
One  dusty  pane  of  it  was  the  stage  of  observation; 
but  no  doubt  the  others  would  have  furnished  as 
many  more.  In  a  corner  some  maggot  or  other, 
metamorphosis  of  a  moth,  had  built  herself  a  tent  of 
silvery  floss  in  which  to  spend  the  days  of  her  separa- 
tion; across  another  a  spider  had  cast  her  filmy  tri- 
angles, and  even  now  was  cording  a  midge  into  a 
bale  with  invisible  threads.  A  humble-bee  drowsily 
cHmbed  the  heights  by  means  of  the  leading;  in 
mid-field  two  house-flies  made  love,  or  paused  be- 
tween the  orgasms  to  clean  their  legs.  A  ladybird 
rested  from  her  flight,  a  Httle  bubble  of  dry  blood; 
a  woodlouse  coursed  the  lower  slopes  seeking  dirt 
to  add  unto  dirt.  All  was  as  peaceful  as  a  Claude 
landscape,  where  happy  toil  and  love  and  rest  after 
labour  merge  and  interchange  in  the  mellow  haze. 

Then,  as  I  looked  and  considered,  there  was  a 
violent    shock    of    commotion.     A    bluebottle    fly 


3IO  BENDISH 

hustled  into  this  busy  httle  world  with  a  bang,  and 
in  a  moment  all  was  upset.  For  he  parted  the 
lovers  and  scared  them  into  space,  and  woke  up  the 
ladybird,  and  flacked  the  woodlouse  into  a  pill. 
His  bumming  and  guzzhng  stirred  the  bee  to  danger- 
ous passion;  between  them  they  rocked  the  maggot's 
kraal  out  of  position — it  fell,  and  she  with  it,  and 
became  so  much  refuse.  The  field  was  open  to  their 
mad  encounterings,  except  for  the  spider's  gin;  and 
into  that  finally  they  fell  tumbling  and  bombinating, 
to  wreck  its  intricate  geometry,  drive  the  contriver 
into  hiding,  and  envelop  themselves  inextricably. 
Tied  and  bound  in  impalpable  chains  they  fell,  the 
instigator  and  the  victim  together;  quivering,  upon 
their  backs  they  lay,  out  of  reach  and  out  of  reckon- 
ing by  the  world  in  which  they  had  wrought  heedless 
havoc.  That  swept  world  lay  hushed  and  bare  as  a 
ploughland  in  the  winter  cold. 

The  httle  drama  speaks  for  itself;  but  to  return 
for  a  moment  to  George,  Lord  Bendish.  Alieni  pro- 
fusus,  sui  appetens.  I  may  vary  Sallust  to  account 
for  this  young  man.  He  had,  for  the  moment, 
emptied  his  own  Httle  world;  but  many  things  re- 
main to  be  said  of  him,  for  he  was  inveterate  at 
spending,  and  there  are  as  many  worlds  precisely  as 
there  are  men  and  women.  For  the  moment  he  lay 
upon  his  back,  quivering  advances  to  Mackintosh 
to  comfort  him;  but  you  may  feel  sure  that  he  will 
be  up  and  out  again  before  long  for  fresh  worlds  in 
which  to  riot.  Of  him  indeed  I  have  many  things 
to  report,  but  not  now.     He  left  England  almost 


QUIETUS  FROM  MR.   HENIKER  311 

immediately  after  the  events  above  chronicled,  and 
thereafter  his  affairs  mingle  with  European  affairs. 
But  they  were  talking  of  him  at  the  breakfast  table 
at  Holland  House  a  week  or  so  after  his  departure, 
and  Sam  Rogers  said  a  good  thing  of  him  in  his  rasp- 
ing voice.  Somebody  had  commented  upon  his  gift 
of  rhetorical  penmanship  and  thought  him  a  pohtical 
force  turned  off  the  track.  Reform,  surely,  would 
have  been  speedier  if  he  had  held  his  course.  Where- 
upon old  Rogers  croaked  his  epigram.  "Bendish!" 
he  said;  "Reform!  Bah,  my  dear  sir!  Bendish 
used  Reform  as  a  fork  to  scratch  his  back  with." 


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extraordinary  perception  of  the  inner  life  of  a  distant 
and  alien  age." — The  Outlook. 

The  Fool  Errant 

12mo.   $1.50 

"  Nothing  else  quite  so  good  in  its  own  way  has  come 
to  us  since  Charles  Reade  wrote  the  '  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth.'  " — Philadelphia  Ledger. 


BOOKS   BY   MAURICE   HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Letters  to  Sanchia 

12mo.    90  cents  net;   postpaid,  $1.00 

These  celebrated  letters  which  John  Maxwell 
Senhouse  wrote  Sanchia  Percival  upon  a  wide  va- 
riety of  subjects  have  been  put  together  by  Mr. 
Hewlett  with  connecting  text.  They  are  full  of  wit, 
philosophy,  and  the  spirit  of  the  open  air. 

The  Forest  Lovers 

A  Romance 

12mo.    $1.50 

"  The  book  is  a  joy  to  read,  and  to  remember  a  source 
of  clean,  pure  delight." — TJie  Dial. 

"An  uncommonly  attractive  romance." — The  Spectator, 

The  Life  and  Death  of 
Richard  Yea  and  Nay 

12mo.    $1.50 

"A  bit  of  master  craftsmanship,  touched  by  the 
splendid  dignity  of  real  creation." — The  Interior. 

"  We  have  to  thank  Mr.  Hewlett  for  a  most  beautiful 
and  fascinating  picture  of  a  glorious  time  ...  we  know 
of  no  other  writer  to-day  who  could  have  done  it." 

— London  Daily  Chronicle. 


BOOKS  BY   MAURICE   HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Little  Novels  of  Italy 

12mo.    $1.50 

"  The  most  finished  studies  which  have  appeared  since 
the  essays  of  Walter  Pater." — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  The  stories  are  so  true  to  their  locality  that  they  read 
almost  like  translations." — New  York  Times. 

The  Road  in  Tuscany 

A  Commentary 

2  Volumes.     12mo.    $6.00  Net 

"  Every  one  who  wishes  to  have  an  English  library  of 
books  of  and  on  Italy  should  have  this  frank  and 
charming  comment  upon  Tuscany." 

— Chicago  Tribune. 

Earth^vork  Out  of 
Tuscany 

Being  Impressions  and  Translations  of 
Maurice  Hewlett 

12mo.     $2.00 

"  Written  with  the  lightness,  the  delicacy,  the  felicity 
of  the  painter  whose  colors  are  words  fitly  chosen." 

— San  Francisco  Argonaut. 


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